


Copywright

by sugarburnt



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Cap!Sam, M/M, Minor Character Death, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-21 16:13:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 29,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11360976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarburnt/pseuds/sugarburnt
Summary: Sam knows that getting back in the game so soon probably isn't a great idea. But when Nick Fury comes asking for his help? It's pretty damn hard to say no.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, everybody! This is my contribution to the Cap RBB challenge. Inspired by esaael's wonderful [ art. ](http://esaael.tumblr.com/post/162435547139/art-for-the-captain-america-reverse-big-bang-2017)

Gunfire rattles like shrapnel on a hotplate. Sam and Riley dive and glide, silent.

“Clear skies,” Sam reports. “Seven friendlies, grounded, taking fire.”

“Jericho spotted,” Riley calls. “Formation 2-A.”

It’s a night mission, standard PJ rescue op, nothing they haven’t done a hundred times before. They pair and dive, draw fire, scatter and take out five in one sweep. Sam confirms a sixth. Riley spirals around him in an elegant arc and says, “I’ll drop one on em this time, Sam T.”

They sweep again. Sam lays down a barrage of cover while Riley fires his favorite missiles right into the heart of the enemy combatants. Their wayward rescuees let out a triumphant cry when the fiery cloud shoots into the sky, and Sam cheers back. Something goes whooshing past his face.

“Hey—!”

It’s Riley.

One of his wings hangs like a broken limb. Sam leaves his gut behind as he dives, nausea burbling up his insides. The wind shrieks, a dying thing. A bullet or shrapnel or something slices through his leg and Sam screams even as he reaches out, catches hold of Riley’s limp wrist. He pulls and Riley’s shoulder cracks out of place. Sam spreads his wings, tilts, cradles his brother-in-arms. 

His body bursts on impact, and Sam dies.


	2. SHIELD

He’s heard of the man before of course. Children in Sam’s family grow up on Gabe Jones and his ilk, black folks who fought for their country’s freedom even when their own is never guaranteed. But to sit across from this man?

“Uh,” says Sam. “Sorry, sorry, sir, what?”

Nick Fury raises an unamused brow. “Sam Wilson?”

“Yes! Yes, nice to meet you, sir.” Fury takes pity on him and accepts Sam’s offered hand, gripping it firmly. 

“Good to meet you, son.” Fury tips his head and his grip tightens. “Sorry about your partner.”

Sam pushes down the grief that threatens to crush his chest. 

“Oh, uh. Yeah, me too,” he says. “He was a good man.”

Fury nods. He lets go of Sam’s hand and leans back in his seat. The diner bustles quietly about them. 

“Heard y’all were one helluva team, too, huh.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You been healin up?”

“I’m comin along,” Sam hedges. He’s made two of his last five PT appointments, anyway. Fury rolls his eye and purses his lips. 

“Look, I’ll cut to the chase,” he snaps. “I’m here to recruit—”

Sam sits up straighter.

“But.” Fury glares at him. “I can’t do that if you can’t follow your standing orders.”

Sam resists the urge to roll his eyes and digs his fingers into his palm under the table. “Yes, sir.” 

“Director. I’m recruiting a soldier, but this ain’t the army.” Fury smirks at him. “This is SHIELD.”

Fury adds a contact in Sam’s phone under ‘NR’ and tells him that “an agent will be in touch.” Sam doesn’t hear anything for a while. He wonders, almost absently, how close SHIELD watches him during the next few weeks. NR texts Sam after his next physiotherapy session (which he attends, dutiful and chagrined), and asks him to confirm his address. Sam’s in the grocery store and pushes his cart to the side of the aisle. He attests that indeed, unit 302 belongs to him, and gets back,

Huh. 

??, he types, frowning. 

Didn’t expect the violin, NR replies. A picture follows.

Sam abandons his unbought goods in the middle of the store and speeds the whole way home. When he slips into his apartment, weapon drawn, a woman waits for him. She’s unbearably casual in Sam’s space, flip-flops and leggings, eating his cereal out of the box. She side-eyes him and smirks. 

“Hi,” she purrs.

Sam purses his lips. He nods to the instrument in the corner, still thankfully unmolested next to his music stand.

“It’s a viola,” he says.

“I know.” The woman sticks a sugar-coated finger in her mouth and pushes a piece of red hair behind her ear with her free hand. “Jush meshin wif ya.”

“Who the hell are you?” Sam snaps.

NR examines her now-clean fingers and slips off his breakfast stool. “Natasha Romanov. I’m your—liaison for SHIELD and the Avengers.”

“So I really am doubling down, huh?” Sam lowers his gun and sets it on the kitchen counter. He pulls the clip out of his pocket and lays it next to the pistol.

The Black Widow snorts. “Nice.”

“Y’all’ve been pretty quiet since the Incident,” Sam remarks casually.

“The Avengers only assemble for world-level crises,” NR rattles off, face blank. Then she smirks at him again. “At least, right now. We’ve all got our own problems.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “I’ll bet you do,” he mutters. The Black Widow’s red lips spread. 

“SHIELD’s where you’ll do most of your work. If you really want the job,” she adds. 

Sam crosses his arms over his chest and pretends to think about it. “Well, I heard the pay’s good,” he says. 

NR flashes a smile—a real one, split second, lip turned up at the corner—and stands adjusting her ponytail.

“How’s PT going?”

Sam keeps his face blank and ignores the twinge in his back. “Good,” he says smoothly. “You lookin to go a round right now? I can put on my sweatpants.”

“Oh, no,” Romanov says earnestly. “I wouldn’t want to hurt you.” She rolls up the plastic bag inside Sam’s Fruit Loops box and closes the box tab.

“Meet me in two weeks,” she says. “I’ll text you the address.” 

Romanov swings a purse over her shoulder and slips out of the two-inch space Sam left when he opened his door. Sam shakes his head. 

“Should I practice sitting on my thumbs in the meantime?” he calls.

She doesn’t answer. Sam sticks his head out the door, but he doesn’t even catch a hint of red.


	3. The Tower

Sixteen days later, Sam’s phone buzzes. He picks up on the second ring with a huff. “I thought you said two weeks,” he grumbles.

Romanov laughs at him. “Impatient for a soldier,” she chides. “Didn’t you wait for a month on top of a rock in Afghanistan?”

“I wasn exactly sittin around. Which you know,” he adds, “since apparently you read up on me.”

“Avengers Institute,” NR says, “know where it is? They’ll let you up to the thirtieth floor. Meet me in the training room.”

“Wha—”

“See you.” She hangs up before Sam can get a word in edgewise, and Sam’s already regretting this meeting.

He hasn’t been to Stark’s tower in a little over ten years. The building’s facade doesn’t seem much changed—aside from the pointedly glowing A—but the inside is wholly different from his long-ago tour. Gone are the benches and sweeping, extravagant arches that admittedly complimented the marble. Instead Sam finds himself in a minimalist rectangle, all modern (read: uncomfortable) furniture and harsh angles, clean steel and black granite floor tiles, swipeable security kiosks and metal detectors. He’s accosted by security personnel within seconds and told to “step aside, please, sir.” 

“Goddamn Bond movie,” Sam mutters. 

One of the guards chuckles despite themselves and squeezes his shoulder as Sam is pushed into an elevator. The man leans around the door frame and swipes an ID card.

“Eighteenth floor,” he says. The buttons go up to eighty. Sam frowns. 

“Actually—”

The security guard shakes his head. “I’m aware of what Agent Romanov requested,” he says. He offers Sam a smile that’s probably meant to comfort and pulls back to let the doors close. “Stark wants to meet you.”

Sam wants to protest but the elevator doors have already closed. He sighs. He tries to think about how the hell ended up glaring at the walls of Tony Stark’s elevator, but his life feels out of sequence, ripped with a hole in the middle.

Sam sighs again.

He hears music before the doors even open. He passes what might be a break room or a bedroom and hits a dead end, turns around, and follows the AC/DC around the corner he didn’t take. At the end of the hall sits a glass-walled lab. Tony Stark stands with his back to the door, gesturing wildly with—a soldering gun?—to another man with curly hair, salt-n-pepper grey even though he looks hardly older than Sam’s big brother.

“—own here, because that’s really none of his business—hey!”

Stark whirls around and beams at him. “Sam Wilson, Senior Airman, and uh—you do that thing, right?” Stark twirls his finger and does a little hop. “The flying thing.”

Sam crosses his arms and raises his eyebrows. “That’s me.”

“I hear Romanov has you in the gym today.”

The curly-haired man whistles, hands in his pockets as he rocks back on his heels. “Good luck,” he says. He sticks out his hand. “Bruce Banner. Nice t’meet you.”

“Sam Wilson.” He shakes Banner’s hand and smiles. “Nice to meet you, Dr. Banner.”

“Call me Bruce.” 

“I’m uh, Tony. Tony Stark.” Stark waves, soldering gun now safely on a little metal cart. “Just wanted to say hi, talk about—stuff, before Widow gets you.”

“Stuff?”

“Yeah! Step into my office, c’mon.”

Stark sweeps his arm and Sam shuffles reluctantly into the man’s workspace. Scrap metal and wires and schematics scribbled on thin vellum cover every available surface. A tank of what looks like goo sits in a corner, and if Sam squints he can see something moving. He frowns and walks a little faster, passes a wicked golden spear suspended in electricity. Between its curved points a blue orb floats. Sam picks his way around a whirring robotic arm—it bobs and twirls its fingers at him in a friendly little wave—and almost runs into Dr. Banner. The shorter man chuckles and squeezes his shoulder. His touch is gentle but his fingers are hard, like so many vets Sam knows. 

“Sorry,” Bruce murmurs. “Here, Tony—”

Stark hooks his arm in the crook of Sam’s elbow and draws him forward. There’s a click and a hum, and then a voice says, “Scanning, sir.”

Sam raises his eyebrows and looks towards the ceiling. 

“Hello, Mister Wilson,” says the voice. “My name is JARVIS. I am an Artificial Intelligence created by Mister Stark. I run the Tower. If you ever need anything at all, please don’t be afraid to ask.”

“JARVIS, huh?” 

Stark grins.

“Just a very intelligent system,” he jokes. “You’ll like him. Everybody likes him. So!” Stark whips around and a readout spills onto the wall in a wash of silver and blue. “Shoulder’s healing good. Spine—needs some work. No heavy lifting, huh?”

Sam crosses his arms again and stills his body against slipping into a combat stance. “Not just yet,” he says lightly. “And I’d preciate it if you didn bio scan me without my permission.” He jumps when the little blue ball spinning in the golden sphere pops, electricity sparking at its containment field. 

“What is that?” he asks.

“That? Oh.” Stark puts his hands in his pockets. “We’re not too sure. Might be something interesting. Pretty sure it’s not from earth.”

“You’re—okay.” Another tendril of blue cracks out from the spinning orb. “You don’t know what it is, but you’re—what, just okay with it? Just there?” Sam frowns. “‘Cause that don seem contained.”

Dr. Banner chuckles and scoffs. “There’s a lot of things that aren’t, uh, contained in the Tower.”

Sam bites back a retort and breathes through his nose. “I think you’re a little diffren from an alien space orb, Doc.” Banner sighs and offers him a smile. 

“You’ll get used to it here,” he promises. Sam doesn’t think so.

Stark hums. He pulls up another schematic with a flick of his fingers and Sam is—mesmerized. It’s lighter than a standard issue set, and the joints are formed so that the layers can slide past each other with the barest resistance, individual feathers outlined in incredible detail. Sam can even count the shafts. 

“Carbon fiber weave on an adamantium frame,” Stark says. “Fully retractable, of course. A little smaller shell than your old ones, but—”

“They’re, uh.” Sam clears his throat. “They’re beautiful man.” 

“They’re yours,” Stark says, smirking, “you know. If you want the job.”

“Guess we’ll see.” Sam turns deliberately way from the wings and almost jumps. NR smirks knowingly at him and exchanges cheek kisses with Banner.

“Stark,” she says. Stark does jump, pressing a hand to his heart and widening his eyes incredulously.

“Jesus!” he exclaims. “You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you? She is,” he says to Dr. Banner, who rolls his eyes. “This is evidence.”

“Don’t hog Wilson. He’s mine today.” Romanov flutters her lashes at him and even though Sam huffs a smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.

“Agent,” he says. He follows her as she wanders back out of the lab and grins over his shoulder.

“See y’all later.”

“Leave him in one piece!” Stark yells.

Romanov takes him on a tour of the facility. The building has eighty floors—the bottom ten are offices, PR, security, accounting, management, etc; twelve are full living suites; one is a medical wing; one is apparently a giant rec room and another appears to be exclusively for fine dining; ten more are various training facilities, and the rest all seem dedicated to research projects and miscellany. NR states explicitly that Stark has no weapons projects that isn’t being developed for a specific Avenger, but still. Sam itches. Fifty-five floors open for R&D, and Sam’s supposed to believe there’s not one measly intern designing an overpowered bomb.

“S’kinduva shame,” he remarks, watching the Widow out of the corner of his eye. “Used some Stark Tech during my service. Faced some, too,” he adds. “Say what you want, but the man made good weapons.”

“‘Made’ being the operative word.” Sam turns to find the suited security guard from early striding toward them, a placid smile adorning his face.

“Phil,” NR greets warmly.

The other agent dips his head. “Mr. Wilson, good to see you again. Sorry I didn’t introduce myself earlier. Phil Coulson, Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division.”

Sam laughs, because Phil Coulson is just so sincere, and shakes the man’s hand again. “Nice to meet you, man.”

Agent Coulson flashes him a real grin. “I hope you’ve enjoyed your tour.”

“I have,” Sam says. “I—you know. It’s a lot to get used to.”

“It is,” Romanov agrees quietly. Her small, calloused hand squeezes his bicep. “You know, you don’t have to make a decision right now.”

“But,” Coulson interjects, “the sooner the better. The world isn’t going to wait to need saving, Mister Wilson.”

Sam bites down another laugh and nods gravely. “I’ll get back to you soon, sir,” he says. Romanov chuckles. 

“C’mon, Flyboy,” she says. “Let’s run you, first.”

Sam’s sure she’s going to run him into the ground, but he follows nonetheless.


	4. Birds of a Feather

Sam fills out his SHIELD paperwork in stints. His record is six forms signed before he has to go out on a run to clear his head. Fury has him holed up in a little apartment in Harlem, situated over a tiny bodega and across from a movie theater that looks like it either shows skin-flicks or art films. NR texts him every so often, and occasionally they meet for coffee or a meal. She shows him dossiers on the other Avengers, and slips him updates on his new wings. He tells her how PT is going, his new job at the Manhattan Vet’s Center. Nat isn’t his only friend in New York, not by a long shot, but she’s rapidly becoming one of his closest. It’s very domestic, almost comfortable. It sets Sam’s teeth on edge.

“I’m still not sure about all this,” Sam admits. It’s their fifth date—Romanov hates it when he calls them that—and it’s raining. Short, sporadic bursts occasionally overtake a steady downpour, no real rhythm to it. Sam misses the usual calm that settles under his skin during wet summer days, and instead finds himself shifting in his seat at every rumble of thunder.

“I’d be worried if you were.” Natasha stirs her coffee—black, two sugars—and taps her spoon on the rim of the mug.

“Come down to the Tower,” she urgers. “Stark says those wings are finished.”

“Is that supposed to make me change my mind?”

Nat laughs. “Come on.” She leans forward, eyes bright, and brushes her thumb across the back of his hand. “Let me tempt you.”

Stark fits Sam with his wings in the lab. They weigh down his shoulders just so he stands straighter, feels taller. He has the urge to flex them, phantom limbs returned, though he knows it will offer his muscles no relief. Sam adjusts the straps crisscrossing his chest and rotates his wrists.

“The uh—arm gauntlets, right? They’re new.”

“Mm. Connect with the, uh…” Tony taps his head. Sam snaps the goggles down over his eyes and sure enough, weapons, environmental data, and a host of other information pops into view. Sam flicks through menus with his thumb on the gauntlets’ smooth, wide plate and grins despite himself.

“Alright,” he says. “Alright, man, this’s pretty cool.”

Stark grins back. “You bet your butt it is,” he says. “Go on, try ‘em out. We’ll take the data and make any adjustments you need.”

One of Stark’s gyms is built like a smoldering cityscape, the edges of skyscrapers molded out from the very walls and rubble strewn about the floor. Sam hesitates for a moment in the doorway. He takes a deep breath and—yes, the wings work the way his old ones did, unfolding at the slightest pressure.

He takes off for the first time in over a year. His back doesn’t hurt, he doesn’t fall or scream. He glides smoothly, with no breeze. He circles the the space once and dips into a shallow dive. The synthetic feathers rotate with him, sensitive to every shift in the air. It’s everything and nothing like what he’s used to flying with, which he supposes is a good thing. It takes him a few minutes to get used to how reactive the wings are—he can almost feel the cold, filtered air sliding over his feathers

Sam lands a good twelve feet off the ground on a ‘balcony’ in one of the faux-scrapers and surveys the arena. A light flashes over his shoulder and Sam squints into the distance. The goggles focus impossibly in and reveal a sniper lying a cozy little nest on the building across from him. Sam lifts a hesitant hand and gets a little wave in return.

“Hello to you too,” Sam calls. He glides to the ground. A blond man emerges from the sniper’s building a few seconds later with a rifle slung over his shoulder and compact bow strapped to his back. He grins lopsidedly and sticks out his hand.

“Clint,” he says. “How’re you doing man?” He speaks loudly. Sam raises a brow at him and clasps his hand.

“Sam, nice t’meet you.”

Clint rummages in his bag and holds up one finger.

“Gimme a sec,” he calls. He holds up a set of hearing aids for Sam’s benefit and then pops them in with a grin.

“Don’t like to have em in when I practice with the rifle,” he explains. “You’re the new guy, right?”

“Looks like.”

“That’s a nice set of wings, man.” Clint whistles and Sam lets his wings drop so he examine the pack. “Stark Tech—nice. Usually his shit’s too gaudy.”

Sam snorts. Clint walks back around and pops a piece of gum in his mouth. He holds out a stick to Sam, who shakes his head. The blond side eyes him and lifts his hands.

_You sign?_

Sam nods. _Service,_ he replies. _I’m a little._ “Uh.” Sam pauses, thinks. _Rusty?_   he tries. Clint laughs.

“Gotcha.”

“So, sniper?” Sam asks.

Clint shrugs. “Archer,” he offers. “I like to keep up with ol’ red-dot here, though.” He pats the rifle on his shoulder and then grimaces. “You want coffee, man? I’m fuckin dead.”

Sam reluctantly locks up his wings—in good care, JARVIS promises—and goes with Clint up to the kitchen. NR is there, tablet propped up by a stack of paperwork.

“Looks like your Saturday’s goin well,” Sam teases. She rolls her eyes and flicks Clint when he slides by her.

“Barton,” she says. “Pour me a cup.”

“Yes ma’am.” Clint pulls three mugs out of a cabinet while Sam settles beside Natasha at the kitchen island.

“Those really are nice wings.” Clint fiddles with the French press and jabs a thumb at Sam over his shoulder. “How d’ya take it?”

“Milk and sugar, please,” Sam says. NR snorts and he gives her a look. “Just ‘cause your hard Russian ass wants to drink nasty low-grade shit doesn mean I have too.”

“I just don’t like arabica, Wilson. Get over it.”

“No!” Clint sets a perfect, caramel-colored cup of coffee between Sam’s hands. “Do not let her off the hook for this; Tasha is ridiculous.” Clint rolls his eyes.

“I’m partial to vanilla lattes myself,” he tells Sam, “when I’m not chugging this shit.”

“Gotta enjoy the small things in life.”

Clint hums in agreement and sits across from them. He stirs an an ungodly amount of sugar into his cup and tops it off with the barest splash of half-and-half. Sam takes a sip of his own coffee and Clint gestures at him again.

“Wings,” he says. He swallows and says, “you ever work with Stark’s tech before? You’re army, yeah?”

“Airforce.”

“Oh! Yeah, yeah,” Clint waves a hand, “sorry. Airforce. So they’ve got you guys hyped up on that shit, right?”

“Most of my encounters with Stark Tech weren’t...friendly,” Sam hedges. Clint’s eyes widen and his grip flexes on his mug.

“Hmm. Yeah. It was the same for a lot of us here, I think,” he says. “I know Nat’s gone up against it. Banner definitely has.” He rolls his eyes again and then sighs.

“Tony tries to make up for it, but I don’t think he thinks he can,” Clint says bluntly. Natasha sighs and Sam bites his lip.

“What do you think?” he asks finally. Clint shrugs.

“I dunno, man,” he says. His eyes flick to Nat and he ducks his head. “Lotuv us have red in our ledger, too. I don’t think it’s that easy.”

Sam nods. Clint sips his coffee again and then gets up, muttering about snacks.

“I don’t have to live here, right?” Sam asks casually. NR shoots him a look at of the corner of her eye.

“No,” she agrees, “no, you don’t have to live here.”

“Guess I’m in, then,” Sam says before he can think himself out of it. “Still got that last stuff to sign. Tomorrow.”

“I’ll be at yours.” Natasha flashes him a grin and knocks their shoulders together. “Nice to have you on the team, Falcon.”


	5. Meet-Cute

They send him undercover for his first ‘solo’ mission. He’s extracting some SHIELD agent who reported in to say they’d made their mark, gathered their intel, whatever. Sam doesn’t really know anything about the agent until he gets to Berlin, where he’s playing tourist.

“Why do I have to do this again?”

“You stick out like a sore thumb,” Hill says in his ear. “This’ll help you blend.”

Something bristles up his spine. “Like a sore thumb, huh?” Sam snaps.

“You don’t speak any German, Wilson, and you eat like an American.”

Sam grumbles under his breath and adjusts the ridiculous camera around his neck. “Was the fanny pack really necessary?”

Someone snorts in his com and Sam narrows his eyes. “Fuck off, NR.”

“Sorry,” Nat chuckles, unrepentant. There’s a click as she presumably vacates the line and Sam lowers his cell into his pocket.

“You’re goin two blocks east, the Berlin Cathedral. Popular tourist site, in case Becker needs to slip a tail,” Hill relays.

Sam doesn’t answer but, after two quick clicks of his camera, heads east. The street is people-full and loud but it doesn’t phase him—it’s an almost comforting drone, different from Harlem but familiar enough that Sam maneuvers smoothly through the crowd and the traffic. The Cathedral looms impressively as he approaches. He takes a brochure from the greeter and pulls off his sunglasses, squints in the shadows of the pillars. Stark tried to fit him with “HUD contacts” but Sam isn’t quite ready for the man’s tech to grace his bare eyeballs. It shouldn’t be hard to make his mark, anyway. SHIELD agents usually aren’t the stealthiest, despite their reputation. Sure enough, Sam spots a man dressed in muted colors with a baseball cap pulled low over his aviators leaning against a wall, muttering to himself. He’s white, holds himself with a military stance, and he’s broad-shouldered like a comic book character. Sam rolls his eyes and pulls out his cell phone, thumbing the screen before lifting it carelessly to his ear.

“You talk to em yet, dear?” he says.

“Yes, honey,” Hill replies smoothly. “He sent a selfie.” Sam snorts, not sure if she’s joking. “Blond, wearing dark red shirt. Small guy. Glasses. Knows what you look like.”

“He’s not exactly what I would call small,” Sam mutters. The guy has at least a few inches on him, in girth and height. Hill scoffs into his ear.

“No need for niceties,” she says.

Sam snorts. “Yeah, alright. I’ll be on the lookout for—Steve, yeah? Talk to you soon, sweetie.”

He slips the phone back in his pocket and meanders toward not-so-small Steve. The man’s eyes flash around the room, never lingering for more than a moment. Sam edges a little closer and someone clears their voice at his elbow.

“Hey, scuse me.” It’s a man, short and blond with a narrow, pretty face. Sam’s mouth parts. Behind dark rimmed glasses, his right eye is a soft, jewel-toned blue, the other sea green. He wears a red shirt under a dark, comfortable-looking jacket.

“D’you have the time?” the guy asks. Sam blinks.

“Uh, yeah.” There’s no harm in it—no one aside from a SHIELD agent would know the signal. Sam pulls his watch out of his pocket and flips the band three times over the clock-face. The man grins.

“Oh, good,” he says, slowly. “I thought I was late.”

“Signal returned,” says Hill.

“Change for the bus?” Apparently-Steve asks. 

Sam wordlessly hands him an earpiece hidden in a pile of coins. Steve grins and nods in thanks and disappears again into the crowd. Sam fiddles with his camera, and a few minutes later a quietly labored breath clouds his ear.

“Agent Becker, reporting,” Becker pants. “Sorry, had to hustle to the bathroom.”

“You clean?”

“‘S far as I can tell.”

“You might have one,” Sam’s ‘on his phone’ again. Not-Steve watches him like a hawk from his spot on the wall. “Thought he might’ve been ours, but looks like we’ve got a new kid in class.”

“Goliath in the corner?” Becker asks.

“Mm-hm.”

The agent exhales sharply through his nose. “Thought he looked familiar. Well, shit.”

The little man pops into sight again, on his cell phone. Sam puts his away, snaps a few pictures and then moves so he’s flanking Goliath on the left, between him and the exit.

“Take him outside, gentlemen,” Hill orders. “We can’t afford any civilian casualties right now.”

“Right now?” Becker mutters. Sam grins.

“I think I like you, man,” he says despite himself.

“Copy, Hill,” Becker says. “I’ll get his attention. Wilson, get ready for us. We’ll go across the street, the Lustgarten.”

“I’ve got backup standing by.” Something beeps on Hill’s end and she pauses for a moment. “Subdue only, gentlemen. We want him alive.”

Sam stows his camera in the goddamn fanny pack and puts his sunglasses back on. The street is crowded still, but he settles under the shadow of a tree with a direct line of sigh to the doors. Sure enough, Becker and the Goliath come tromping out. Goliath has the agent by the back of the neck, casual to passersby, but Sam can see the tension in his arms. He untucks his shirt and flicks the safety off his service weapon.

“Hill,” he hisses, “we’re compromised.” They’re almost across the street now, making a beeline for Sam’s position. “Beck—”

He’s so fast that for a moment Sam doesn’t know how it happened. “Jesus,” he breathes. Goliath withers like a beached fish and Becker digs his knees deeper into the guy’s back. He delivers a sharp blow to the back of the man’s head and Goliath howls, nose crushed into the concrete. 

Sam snaps into action and leaps forward, brandishing his mag cuffs for Becker to take. The Goliath bucks, manages to throw Steve off of him, and Sam smashes his knee into the guy’s chin. Goliath reels and Sam kicks him in the chest. He lands two more punches but Goliath still doesn’t go down. He swings and Sam jumps out of the way, pulls out his gun.

“Hands on your head, now!” he bellows.

Goliath curses in Russian and barrels forward but Becker cracks the guy across the back of his knees with a police baton that Sam never noticed. He hits him again in the back and the ribs and Goliath goes down with a cry. Becker plants one big foot in the guy’s neck and kneels again, spits something harsh that Sam’s almost sure he’s heard the one time he beat Nat at poker. An old woman brandishes her shopping bags at them while Becker cuffs his tail.

“Polizei, gnä' Frau, tut mir leid für die Unannehmlichkeiten,” Becker says to her. She makes a disgusted noise and rolls her eyes but leaves them be.

“Thanks for the help.” Becker grins at him. “Sam Wilson, right? Nice t’meet you, man. I’m Steve.”

Sam laughs and shakes Steve’s hand. “Don’t think I was much help, but ya’welcome, I guess.”

A black van pulls up and Sam grabs Goliath by the cuffs and hauls him to his feet. The bigger man curses and snaps viciously at him and Sam hits the back of his knees with one swift strike. He falls again with an oof.

“We can go easy or hard,” Sam tells him mildly. The man glares at him. “I know you can understand me, comrade. Your choice.”

Steve crosses his arms over his chest and bites his lip with a smile. Goliath huffs and stands again, big shoulders straight.

“Good,” Sam snarks. He shoves the guy into SHIELD’s waiting van and climbs in after him. Steve whips out an inhaler as soon as he’s buckled in, takes a few deep, long puffs.

“Killer in this humidity,” he offers with a grin, brandishing the medicine. “Where were you stationed, Wilson?”

Sam snorts. “You an army boy?”

“Tried t’be, but, heh.” Becker waves a hand down his body, which Sam makes an effort not to follow. “Good enough for SHIELD, though. Hope that doesn’ say somethin.”

“Somethin good, maybe.” Sam smiles and Steve goes a little rosy. “I was in Afghanistan, but I’m back in Harlem, now.”

“Back?” Steve leans forward, crooked smile brightening his still-pink face. “Ha! I’m from Brooklyn.”

“No kiddin? Tha’s real nice, guy.”

Becker snorts at him but grins, so it’s worth it. “That’sa terrible accent.” 

“Awful,” Sam admits with a laugh. “You still in New York with SHIELD?” he asks casually.

Steve nods. “I work with Nat, mostly,” he says. “Well, use’ta. Now she’s off with you big guys, so mostly ‘s me ‘n Carter on New York ops. You met Sharon?” Sam shakes his head.

“She’s good people.” Becker stretches, rubs his neck. “Damn.”

Sam’s pulse jumps a little and he tampers the feeling down. “You alright, man?”

“Yeah.” Steve glares at Goliath. “Sebas has a hard grip.”

Sam could fix that—guy doesn’t need all his fingers. He clears his throat. “Get—uh, you want me to take a look?” Steve chuckles.

“You a paramedic?” he asks. Sam blushes and shakes his head.

“I know some basic stuff. Was a para-rescuse,” he explains.

Steve smiles. He shrugs and then winces, rolls his eyes and quick as a flash he’s in Sam’s space. He smells like like sweat and German coffee. Steve buckles his seatbelt again and raises his eyebrows.

“Should I…?”

“Lean forward,” Sam orders. 

Steve does as he’s bid and pushes his elbows to his thighs, dips his head to present the first knob of his bony spine. His skin is freckled and faintly sun-burnt, and sure enough a bruise is already rising beneath his skin where Sebas had gripped him. Sam puts on his soldier face and palpates Steve’s thin skin. His bones are easily definable, and thankfully in the proper alignment. The muscle feels a little swollen.

“Well, you’re bruising and you gonna bruise worse,” Sam reports. “But you knew that already.”

Steve snorts. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Thanks for checkin though.”

Becker sits back up with another groan and Sam places his palm carefully on his own thigh. They’re quiet for a few comfortable seconds and then Steve laughs again.

“Helluva way to make a new friend,” he says. “I feel like we’re friends now. After you felt me up.”

“Hey!” Sam crosses his arms. “I was the utmost professional.”

“ _My dear agent, I am a medic,_ ” Steve says, grinning, “ _when I grope, it’s in the line of duty._ ” Sam laughs despite himself. 

“Dr. McCoy? Really?”

“ _Damnit, Jim, I’m a para-rescue, not a doctor!_ ”

“Fuck off!” 

The smaller man laughs. “I like you too, Wilson.” 

SHIELD takes Sebas safely into custody and drop Sam and Becker off at the airport around three AM. They board their private plane ninety minutes later, and Sam falls asleep in the middle of the badly dubbed German-language version of Revenge of the Sith. He wakes up with his head on Steve’s shoulder, Steve’s chin smushed to his temple. 

“Becker,” he mumbles. “Shteve. Steve.”

“Hmm?” Steve shifts so Sam can sit up and smiles sleepily at him.

“Hey, man,” Sam says. “You wanna go out for coffee?”

“No.” Sam’s gut plummets and then Steve rubs his eyes and says, “fuckin hate coffee. Let’s do dinner.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Asshole.”

Becker chuckles and relaxes back into the seat. “Don’t say I didn’ warn ya.”


	6. Real Dates

Sam’s never been to this diner before, which is unusual. He likes to think of himself as a Mom-and-Pop, local food kind of connoisseur, but Becker has him beat in Brooklyn. Steve orders for him, which Sam doesn’t really like, but the guy’s so eager for Sam to try this one dish that he just smiles and nods when the waiter comes by.

“It’s good,” Sam admits, five bites into the dumplings. Steve grins and mutters “yes!” triumphantly under his breath, like a nerd.

“Knew you’d like it,” he says smugly. “That’s my talent.”

Sam snorts. “This is your talent?” he says. “Elite SHIELD agent, takin down people three times your size. And you—knowin what food people’ll like?”

“Yeah,” says Steve, “but only at this diner.”

Sam snorts soda out of his nose.

The guy’s witty, and charming, and he gives his opinion like someone’s gonna fight him on it, and Sam just likes him. He likes the crinkle in Steve’s nose when he starts to smile, the way he watches Sam when Sam talks, how he looks out the window to think or remember. He likes that Steve has to eat two french fries at a time, and always with ketchup. Sam even likes the guy’s temper, in a strange sort of way—likes that he can defuse Steve’s ire with just a touch or a smile. 

“We should do this again,” Steve says, before they’re even halfway through their date. “But you—sorry, you were talking about your Mom? Foster-care, right?” He puts his chin on his hands and smiles when Sam smiles.

“Yeah,” says Sam. “You know we had ten kids in the house one year?” Steve’s eyes widen and he leans forward a little, and yeah. Sam likes how Steve likes him.

He picks their next two dates, but Steve still manages to keep him on his toes. For someone who works with Natasha, he almost over-shares. Sam quickly learns that his boyfriend is adopted, allergic to both chocolate and almost every known nut, is deaf in one ear, and that his biggest fight with his Moms was over joining the Military Intelligence Corps. Sam gets the feeling that the agent doesn’t get to share a lot; he gets this look on his face with every new detail he reveals that speaks of a long-tense muscle finally relaxed.

Steve wants Sam to be open, too, which Sam didn’t expect to have a problem with. His jaw just goes tight sometimes. Steve’s good about it, though, doesn’t push him. Sam will clam about something—his siblings they didn’t get to adopt, almost being outted to his CO—and Steve just nods and holds his hand until Sam can breathe again.

It feels like the start of a good thing.

***

They manage to go almost a month before they’re almost caught. Sam is horrified to find Thor coming out of the tea shop he’s about to enter, cape and all. The god blinks at the sight of him and then grins.

“Friend Sam!” he booms. “This is indeed a most blessed surprise! Where to you, brother?”

“Hey, Thor.” Sam does not panic. “Uh, in there, actually. How’s the tea?”

“Absolutely splendid! I myself, am partial to the honey ginseng, with mint,” Thor tells him. “And more than just fine teas—one of your SHIELD agents is spending time inside, as well.” 

“Oh yeah?” says Sam. He bites his lip, then says, “you know Becker?”

“Of course!” Thor booms. “I had the pleasure of working with good Steven in search of my brother, Loki. I did not know you were friends.”

“Work friends, yeah,” Sam says. “We got some tactical reports to slog through. Thought we’d do it here.”

Thor nods sagely. “Ah. Well, I am sure you work well together. You are both fine men, and upstanding warriors.”

“Agents,” Sam corrects gently.

“As you say.” Thor bows his head and grins again. “I must be off, my brother. I hope to see you again soon. Perhaps another serendipitous meeting!”

Sam chuckles and wipes his sweaty palms surreptitiously on his jeans. “Perhaps,” he says.  
Steve’s way too cool about it.

“It’s okay, Sam,” he says, and pauses to blow on his tea.

“Ste—”

“First of all,” Steve holds up a finger, “it’s Thor. The guy’s denser than brick. Secondly, even if somehow he did bring it back to SHIELD, they’re just dates.” He shrugs. “It’s not like we’re engaged.”

Sam’s gut does a little, fluttering twist that he refuses to analyze.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I just—I want this to be private. Especially from SHIELD.”

Steve laughs, not unkindly, hand flying up to hide his mouth. “Sammy,” he snorts, “I hafta tell ya this wild thing about my job—”

“Shut up, man,” Sam laughs. Steve grins at him and shakes his head and Sam’s chest loosens.

“’S not like I want em to know, either,” he says. “But we’ll be okay. I’m a master spy, remember?”

“You changed your status on Facebook to ‘it’s complicated.’ Why you even on Facebook, Austin Powers?”

Steve laughs again. “Okay, okay. We’ll be careful. This can be our last in-public date for a while, how bout?”

“Oh, you gon cook?”

“…I’ll call the delivery guy. And pay.”

Sam makes Steve promise the first movie they watch won’t be anything sad. Steve pulls out a pen to start making a list, and Sam decides his Mama will approve.

***

Despite Steve’s good intentions, Sam insists on taking care of their first ‘at-home date’. He cooks a full meal, which he hasn’t done since before his last tour, and picks out a wine. He even lights candles and turns on some Al Green. It’s not exactly subtle, but then, Steve isn’t exactly subtle outside of work. He gets to Sam’s around eight, wearing black slacks with a light purple button up that defines his slight muscle and somehow brings out his eyes.

“Hey, baby—” Steve cuts himself off to brush a kiss to Sam’s cheek. “Wow, something smells wonderful.”

Sam chuckles and ushers the shorter man inside. “Wait till you actually taste it.”

Steve smirks and struggles with his . “Oh, I’d love to get a taste.” Sam rolls his eyes and slips Steve’s jacket off his shoulders. “What are we go—” Steve stops short, blush blooming on his cheeks. He’s staring.

Sam raises an eyebrow. “You okay?”

Steve shakes himself. “Uh, ha.” He ducks his head. “I just—I’ve never seen you in that sweater.” Sam lets out a startled chuckle and before he knows it he’s laughing from deep in his belly.

“It’s June, Steve, you’ve never seen me in any sweater,” he says, breathless and still chuckling. “The AC’s stuck on blast; they’re gon fix it tomorrow. But—you’re cute.”

“You’re handsome,” Steve insists. His eyes are wide, green-and-blue bright in the flickering light. Sam’s cheeks heat up and he smooths the cashmere to calm his quickening heart.

“Takes one to know one,” he says. “C’mon, let’s eat. I worked hard on this meal.”

“Oh yeah? Hard work—that somethin new for you?”

“Oh, that’s how it is?”

“That’s how it is.”

Sam laughs and pulls out Steve’s chair for him, moves away before the blond can give him lip for it. He called Mama for help and she walked him through the gumbo she used to make for when Shreveport family came up for Christmas. Sam tells Steve as much as he serves them each a few healthy scoops over rice and pours some wine.

“I made the rice by myself though.”

Steve laughs. “The white rice?”

“Yeah, that’s my talent.” Sam winks. “But only this brand of rice.”

Steve snorts and takes Sam’s offered food and drink. “Can I—?”

“Nope, I’ve got it. Water?”

“Yeah, I can get—”

Sam rounds on him, narrows his eyes. “You have a thing, don’t you? You do.”

Steve freezes, already halfway out of his chair.

“A thing?”

“About being taken care of,” Sam clarifies. “What I say, Steve? I’ve got it, go sit down. Let me pamper you.”

“But—”

“Steven Becker-White, you have paid for every single one of my meals thus far. Sit your ass down while I serve us the food I worked hard on, alright?”

Steve sits with a grumble but waits while Sam gets everything read and serves himself. He settles into his chair and smiles at his boyfriend.

“Bon appetite.”

Steve digs in with gusto. They make idle chit-chat over their food and Sam works himself up. It’s not like he’s a novice at relationships, but taking a next step is a little nerve-wracking no matter how often he’s taken it. Steve’s done with his first plate before Sam’s knows it, and the blond pokes his spoon at him across the table.

“Am I allowed to get myself seconds?” he snarks.

“Get em while they’re hot, smart-ass.”

Steve serves himself another plate and offers to pour Sam a second glass of wine, which he gladly accepts. They settle again. Steve jokes about the only guy that’s smaller than him at the office, and Sam decides its time.

“So, I wanted to ask you somethin.” Steve hums questioning around a mouthful and Sam waits for him to follow before continuing.

“Alright, so we’re official and everything, right?” Steve nods. “Well, I know we talked about it a little bit, but—” Sam smiles and reaches for Steve’s hand across the table. The blond takes it without question and Sam’s heart skips a beat.

“I really like you, and I’d love to have sex,” Sam says. Steve’s hand tightens almost painfully around his fingers and the shorter man grins, wide and filthy.

“Fuck yeah,” Steve breathes. “You—you do mean tonight, right? Because if not that’s fine, but I’d really like, y’know, tonight, Sammy.”

Sam laughs even as a little shiver goes up his spine. “Yeah,” he says, “yeah I meant tonight.”

“Good,” Steve says earnestly.

The rest of dinner is pleasantly tense. They make eyes at each other across Sam’s table, which is ridiculous, and Steve continuously makes food-based innuendos, which is even more ridiculous because each one gets Sam a little hot. Sam baked pound-cake for desert, but when he goes to get it Steve shakes his head.

“Let’s go to the couch,” he says. 

Sam never thought talking about his couch would get him half-hard in his slacks, but here he is. They sit close, their knees touching and shoes slipped off and left by the front door. Steve smiles at him and a pleasant heat fills Sam’s cheeks at stays there.

“Okay, firstly, I really, really want to have sex with you,” says Steve. “But—” Sam tries to keep himself still.

“—it’s not always easy for me.” Sam cocks his head.

“How so?” he asks carefully. 

“Well, you know I have asthma,” Steve says, “so sometimes my breathing can catch up to me.” Sam nods. “And I have some circulation problems.”

“Your heart, yeah.”

“Yeah. So I don’t—always get hard.” Steve holds his eyes. “It’s nothing to do with who I’m with. And—and this is usually the problem for me—finishing is, uh. Difficult. But I really like sex,” Steve adds quickly. Sam chuckles.

“I had gathered that,” he says. The bridge of Steve’s nose turns bright red and he grins.

“I know you said it’s not your partner, but is there anything I can do for you?” Sam asks. “To help you enjoy things more?”

“I mean.” Steve scratches the back of his head and breaks eye contact. “I—it’s about you too. Not just me, y’know.”

Sam raises his eyebrows and just waits. Steve huffs.

“I—finish more often when I top,” he mutters.

Heat pools behind his navel and Sam shifts. “Alright.”

Steve stares at him. “Alright?”

“I mean.” Sam shrugs and shifts again, blushes. “Topping is great. But. You know. Getting fucked is better.”

Steve’s on him without warning, hands gripping the sides of his face as their mouths crash together. It isn’t their fist case by a long shot, not the first time they’ve made out, but Sam’s harder than he’s been in a long time. He slides his hands down the back of Steve’s slacks, grips his ass tightly. Steve’s somehow already got Sam’s pants down past his thighs and his sweater pushed up to expose his belly.

“Arms, arms—”

Sam raises his arms so Steve can divest him of his sweater and shivers in his overly-cool apartment. Steve pushes insistently at his shoulders and accidentally brushes over one of Sam’s nipples. Sam jerks and Steve’s head snaps up. He catches sharp in his sharp, blue-green gaze and Sam blushes again.

“Oh, is that how it is?” he teases, smirk spreading slow over his face.

“Tha’s—oh!” Sam arches into Steve’s fingers, hips rolling involuntarily. “Tha’s how it is. Honey, c’mon…”

Steve shucks Sam’s pants and strips off his shirt, his own nipples going tight in the cool air. Sam brings him down for another kiss, wet and sloppy. Steve works his hips expertly over Sam’s cock and a thrill goes through Sam when he feels Steve hot and hard against him, even though he knows it’s just a matter of a good night. Sam shoves at Steve’s pants and the blond rolls up to stand and strip them off.

“Bedroom?” he pants.

Sam follows him and picks him up when the get to the hallway, squeezing Steve’s ass as he walks them toward the bed. Steve moans and nips into his mouth, tongue mimicking what Sam desperately wants. He sits on the bed and lets Steve push him down again. The shorter man’s nimble fingers pluck again at his nipples, pulling them into sharp peaks that leave Sam trembling, his cock wetting up his boxers.

“Condoms?” Steve asks.

“And lube. Bedside table.”

Steve rummages in the drawer, uncharacteristically clumsy as he pulls out the supplies. He also plucks out Sam’s toy and smirks. He turns it over in his hands, absently tests the vibration settings, and raises an eyebrow. Sam’s cock twitches again and he squirms, just a little.

He hums. “Not tonight,” he says. “C’mon, take of your boxers.”

Sam strips his briefs and relishes Steve’s pink tongue coming out to lick his bottom lip. 

“Fuck, baby—”

Steve wraps a hand around Sam’s cock and gives him a few tight, languorous strokes, spreading the slick that’s already beading at the head. Sam bucks up into the delicious drag and whines when Steve pulls away. Steve just grins and pulls off his own boxers. His cock is short and fat and pink at the tip, and his balls hang swollen and heavy.

“Open up for me, Sammy,” he insists. Sam spreads his legs and Steve waists no time getting a hand back on Sam’s cock, his other slipping between Sam’s cheeks. He almost can’t follow the dual sensations, sweet, hot stretch and Steve’s slick fingers locked in a vice-grip around his shaft. Sam pants and arches into it best he can, bites back his moans.

“Play with your tits,” Steve orders. Sam’s dick jerks and weeps and he does as he’s told, rolling his nipples between two fingers. It feels so good, hot and bright, and Sam can’t hold back his next groan.

“That’s it, fuck, baby, feel that?” Steve’s already slipped a finger inside him and he crooks it now, strokes over his prostate. “You’re almost ready for me.”

He slips a second finger in and Sam rocks his hips. “Want that dick, sweetheart,” he pants. “I am ready, c’mon.”

Steve huffs a laugh and fucks Sam a little harder, keeps his fingers curled so they rub over Sam’s prostate on every pass and it’s pressure Sam never wants to end, good and deep. Steve strokes him faster and everything pools beneath his belly. Steve rubs at Sam’s cockhead with his thumb and Sam thrashes.

“Baby wait I’m gonna—” 

“Come for me, Sammy,” Steve demands. “Come for me and I’ll fuck you through the next one.”

Steve’s hand is a blur on his cock. He nudges a the tip of a third finger into Sam’s ass and Sam flies apart, everything clenching up all at once and releasing in a wanton rush.

“Fuck,” he gasps. “Damn sweetheart.” Steve pulls his fingers back and rolls the condom on but lays down next to Sam, stroking himself leisurely. He grins almost sheepishly.

“Probably shoulda asked,” he says. “Do you still wanna…?”

“Hell yes,” Sam says earnestly. He squirms a little, ass clenching on nothing. Steve grins. 

“Wanna make out while you get it up again?” he asks.

“…We could,” Sam hedges. “But, uh. I actually. Like feeling like it’s—too much,” he admits. “I probably can’t come again, but. It’s…nice.”

Steve’s eyes are still dark and now he smirks, wide and slow. “So if I were to just—slip back in—” he presses gently at Sam’s hole, lets the tip of his finger pull at the rim. Sam grunts and bears down.

“Please,” he whines.

Steve grins. “Yes, sir.”


	7. Interlude

It’s more difficult than Sam anticipates to keep Steve under wraps. The guy’s great about it—shows up so stealthily in Sam’s apartment a few times that it almost gives him a heart attack. But Sam’s never dated in secret. He doesn’t like his business in everyone’s mouth, to be sure, but he’s a tactile person. Wants to sling an arm around Steve’s shoulders, kiss his cheek, hold his hand and call him sweet thing in his ear just to watch him heat up. At work it’s obviously not an option, but they also don’t get to go home together at the end of the day. It niggles at Sam, curdles into something sour every time Stark makes a joke about him needing a girlfriend.

“It’s just too bad I can’t take you dancin.” They’re perched on Steve’s ridiculously comfortable kitchen chairs. He doesn’t cook much, but he’s got beautiful kitchen. Steve raises an eyebrow at him over his spaghetti and cocks his head.

“So put on some music.” He waves a hand at the also admittedly-nice stereo next to the television set.

Sam laughs and takes another bite of his pasta. Steve just stares him down, smirk pulling at his mouth.

“…You’re serious.”

“Uh, yeah.”

Sam rolls his eyes and smirks back, shoves himself away from the table and saunters over to Steve’s set up. “Alright. Don’ know how you make everything a competition, but Imma beat you anyway.”

Steve snorts the way he does when he laughs too hard too fast and smiles into the back of his hand. Big feet plunk down and Steve pads slowly over to him, groaning a little as he stretches. Sam ducks down to give him a kiss and take his hand, music where he wants it.

“How’s your back, baby?” he murmurs. Steve clasps his right hand and puts his left high on Sam’s waist.

“Been better.” 

Sam relishes the quiet admission. It had taken a while before Steve would tell him things like that—when Sam needed to speak up or slow his walk, rest with Steve while he took some deep breathes. Now he nods and turns them slowly.

“I love this album,” Steve murmurs.

“I know. I gave it to you.”

The blond chuckles and lays his head on Sam’s chest. They sway, nothing like what they’d do out at a club, and it’s perfect. Sam lets his hand slide down low on Steve’s back, digging his fingers in just below the tailbone. Steve moans softly and presses a kiss to his collar bone.

“You relaxed?”

“Not exactly the word I’d use.” Steve shifts just so and Sam hitches at the feel of him, warm and firm through his thin sweatpants. Sam grinds his hips just a little and Steve gasps this time. His fingers dig into Sam’s shoulder blade.

“Sammy,” he sighs.

Sweet, blushing heat zings up Sam’s spine. “You know, you’re the only person I let call me that,” he admits.

Steve laughs, but there’s a bite to it that makes the hair on Sam’s neck stand up. Steve slips one hand down the back of Sam’s pants and with the other brings him down for a kiss. He’s never calm about it, not when he initiates, always eager and pressing and a little too much tongue. Sam accepts each wet bite with a satisfied hum and brings his own hands up on Steve’s body, sliding under the blond’s shirt over smooth skin. Steve always runs cold and has told him before, tipsy and blushing, that he loves Sam’s hands on him, feels literally lit up at his touch.

Sam bites Steve’s lip and the smaller man grunts, squeezes his handful of Sam’s ass. “C’mon, darlin,” he says, voice low and gravely, raw. His eyes are sharp and too-bright and Sam is caught, breath hitching to a stop. “C’mon,” he says again, “less you wanna get it right here.”

They stumble into the bedroom, too wrapped up to bother with leftovers or lights. Sam shucks his sweatpants at the door and tries to start on his shirt but Steve pushes him onto the bed, undoing his own jeans as he goes. Sam arches so his shirt rides up, showing the barest sliver of his belly. Steve grins like a shark and dives. He licks into Sam’s mouth again, undulating urgently against him and Sam has to pull away to gasp for air.

“Watch your back, sweetheart,” he pants. Steve sneers and nips his jaw.

“Fuckin fine,” he snaps. “Wanna fuck you, Sam, c’n I do that?”

“Better,” Sam says, bucking under him. “Better fuck me, baby, I want it.”

Steve laughs. He shucks his jeans and shoves his boxers down just enough to free his dick. He’s pink and swollen and long, cockhead peeking out of its foreskin. It seems like a good night; he looks so ready, dick drooling slick down to his thighs.

Sam licks his lips and looks at Steve from under his lashes. The blond bares his teeth again and takes Sam’s face in both hands to crush their mouths together. He kisses him once, twice, and pulls away grinning.

“Careful,” he says. “Ya ain’t ‘n I’ll fuck that sweet mouth first, make you wait for it.”

Sam squirms and Steve lets up just enough so he can roll over onto his belly. The blond hums in approval. Sam lifts up to shove his boxers off and Steve helpfully throws them somewhere over his shoulder. He pushes up Sam’s shirt and kisses down his spine, and his free hand spreads Sam’s cheeks slowly. Sam shudders.

“C’mon, baby.” He pushes up on his forearms and grinds his hips back. “I want it bad, please—”

Steve shushes him and bites the left cheek of Sam’s ass. “Get the lube if you want it.” 

Sam shudders again, though he knows Steve would never fuck him dry. He fumbles in the bedside table for the little tube of slick and has to pause when Steve kiss his hole. He pants and his hips jerk. Steve repositions him with both hands and does it again, using his thumbs to spread Sam wider. Sam tosses the bottle back to him and arches his back. 

“C’mon, want that dick, Stevie,” Sam murmurs.

Steve nips at his rim twice before slick fingers join his tongue in prodding Sam’s hole. Sam’s already tender somehow, twitching at every touch, like Steve already used him and now he’s back for more. Sam squirms and whines at the thought, pushing back on those thick fingers.

“Fuck,” Sam hisses. “Ugh, right there, honey.” Steve strokes over his prostate again, gentle and insistent.

“Ready for another?” Steve asks. Sam tries to nod and Steve must catch it because he bullies another finger in beside the others. Sam groans. It burns, just a bit, and Steve adds a cold squirt of lube unprompted.

“Mmm, better,” Sam says. “C’n move em, baby…”

Rough as Steve gets, he sure loves to open Sam up slowly, will fuck him through an orgasm and back to hardness if Sam lets him. Steve’s no better than he usually is, now, stroking Sam inside with three fingers and rubbing his stretched rim with a thumb. He reaches around with his other had to rub his palm over the head of Sam’s cock, chest plastered to Sam’s back. It’s too much where Sam’s most sensitive and he jerks in Steve’s hold. The blond laughs and does it again, calloused palm spreading slick over Sam’s dick and the pleasure is so sharp it almost hurts. 

“Ngh! S-Stevie c’mon—!”

Steve hums and takes a firm hold of Sam’s cock, stroking too-hard up and down his length for a few pumps and something like relief makes Sam’s hips roll.

“Ready for me, baby?” Steve asks, hot in Sam’s ear.

“You ready to get on with it?”

Steve laughs and kisses the skin behind Sam’s ear and lets his fingers slip from Sam’s ass. There’s a little pause while Steve produces a condom and rolls it on, and then he’s spreading Sam’s cheeks and lets go of his cock to guide himself in. Sam’s lips part. Thick, wet heat fills him up inch by inch. Steve’s fingers are tight at his hips. Sam rocks back and relishes the slide against his insides.

“Fuck,” Steve hisses. “So fuckin nice, Sammy, sweetest I ever fuckin had—”

Steve drives his hips so Sam’s full too fast, aching with it. He pushes his hips back, knees spread wide so he can reach down and stroke himself while his man fucks him. Steve thrusts like he’s got something to prove, cock catching Sam’s prostate with every sharp snap of his hips. Sam clenches down and the friction is almost too delicious. Steve cries out and jerks harder into him.

“Jesus—! I’m, baby, please, I’m so close…”

Steve reaches around to pull that fucking trick with his palm and Sam’s gone, spilling over Steve’s fingers and the bed. Steve takes his hand off Sam’s cock but doesn’t still his hips, grinding into Sam’s ass and burying his face between Sam’s shoulder-blades.

“You gonna come, sweet thing?” Sam asks.

“I don—I—” Sam clenches down again Steve breaks off on a whine. “Wait, wait!”

Sam eases up on his elbows and holds still while Steve pulls out. He flops next to Sam with a groan, cock angry-pink and swollen.

“S-sorry,” he stutters out. “I wanna—I still think I can go—”

“My ass too good for ya? Need somethin else?”

Steve laughs breathlessly, eyes dark. “Would you…?”

Sam throws the used condom away while Steve rolls on another, strawberry flavored. Sam chuckles and presses a kiss to the head. He slides down, mindful of his teeth on the polyurethane, and swallows. Steve gasps and balls his hands up in the bedsheets. Sam drags his mouth back up to the tip, suckles, and drops back down to swallow again.

“Sammy—oh!” Steve jerks and comes. Sam chokes a little when his cock hits the back of his throat and pulls off with a gasp.

Steve’s thin, sweaty chest heaves with every breath. “S-sorry,” he pants, smiling sheepishly. “Su’prised me.” 

“No harm done, baby,” Sam assures him. He kisses the inside of Steve’s knee and crawls up to flop down beside his boyfriend.

“I tell you I love you yet?” he asks.

“Might’a mentioned it.” Steve pulls his medication out from the bedside table and takes a couple puffs on his inhaler. “Love you, too, baby.”

“I tell you we have good sex yet?”

Steve laughs, sets his medicine down and pops out his hearing aid before he rolls over to face Sam, snuggles in tight.

“Be hard not to, with you participating.”

Sam blushes despite himself and smirks. “True,” he says, rightfully smug. Steve giggles and shoves Sam with his bony little elbow until he rolls onto his side. Steve sidles up behind him and wraps his arms under Sam’s chest, fingers splayed wide over his ribs. Sam chuckles.

“Still gotta brush our teeth, gross boy.”

“Le’s nap jus a little,” Steve mumbles. “’S only eight.”

“It’s ten-thirty, Stevie.”

“’S only ten-thirty.”

Sam huffs but grins where Steve can’t see him. “Well, I’mma set an alarm, because I care about my hygiene.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You know you love me.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Steve’s breathes is slow and even and he probably didn’t hear him, but Sam believes the answer anyway.


	8. Sniper

Sam almost misses Coulson’s call over Steve’s snoring. He reaches over his boyfriend—who has once again managed to take up the whole damn bed—and snatches up his phone.

“Wilson.”

“Y’sound like’a bear,” Steve mumbles.

Sam smooches his shoulder in lieu of response and shuffles out of the bedroom. Coulson laughs.

“Becker alright?” 

Sam sighs. “Took y’all long enough.”

“You’re both good agents for a reason.”

“Hmm.” Sam pours himself a glass of water. “You call justa ask me about my boyfriend?”

“An assignment just came in,” Coulson explains.

“Why’re you calling and not Hill?” Sam asks, eyes narrowing. He likes Phil, but the man always seems too busy with bigger things (Stark) to deal with Sam. 

“Not your problem, Falcon.” Sam snorts. “This is urgent. Wheels up in an hour sharp.”

Sam straightens. “Sit rep?”

“Five undercover agents running a sensitive op may have been compromised,” Coulson rattles off. “We can’t afford to risk them or their intel, so we need an extraction.”

“Understood.” Sam throws his go-bag on the counter and sneaks back into the bedroom, but Steve’s already up and fiddling with Sam’s tablet. He raises an eyebrow when Sam pulls open his closet but Sam only shakes his head.

“You’ll be working with another agent,” Coulson informs him. “Sniper, first class.”

“No Barton? NR?”

“This guy’s better. Supposedly.” Sam rolls his eyes. “You probably won’t come into face-to-face contact. Word is, he’s pretty reclusive.”

“Can I at least get a name?” Sam jokes.

“No.”

He stops in the middle of pulling up his sweats and stares at his phone. Steve shuffles past him in dark and raises his eyebrow—Sam shakes his head again. He presses the phone back to his cheek. 

“What do you mean, no? I’m workin with the guy, aren’t I?”

“His identity is need-to-know, top classified.”

“I’m workin with him,” Sam snaps. “I need to know.”

“Not according to his team.”

“Who y’all control.”

“He’s an outside agent. Keeping his identity under wraps is part of his contract. If you can’t work with that, then I’ll send someone who can.”

Sam bristles. Coulson is as close to snapping as Sam’s ever heard him get. Steve hands him a pair of rolled up socks and his favorite sneakers and taps a finger to Sam’s lips. he exhales slow and quiet.

“Can you at least tell me about the agents who’ve been compromised?” he asks through gritted teeth.

“The most I can say is that they’ve reported a mole in their unit,” Coulson says. “Brock Rumlow’s called it in.” 

“And the mole? The nature of the leak?”

“I can’t give you information I don’t have.”

“Agent—”

Sam holds the phone away from his face for a moment and does a breathing exercise. At least he actually knows Rumlow—the guy’s an ass, but he runs a tight op. Steve shuffles into Sam’s peripheral vision and offers his hand. Sam grabs it, squeezes hard. He can’t not take the job, not when people might die.

“Understood,” Sam says. “Be there in thirty.”

“Make it twenty.”

Sam slips his phone into his pocket. “You okay?” Steve asks. “Whats the sit rep, Falcon?”

“I...don’t think I can tell you.” Sam sneers and stomps over to the bed to put on his socks and shoes. “I fuckin hate this shit.”

Steve sits next to him, curls his toes in the rug. “Hate what?”

“This!” Sam pulls his laces too tight and makes himself breathe again. “I didn’t join the Air Force because I’m a fan of hierarchical political bullshit,” he says. “I just—I’ve been with the Avengers too long. Forgot, I guess. That SHIELD is the same damn thing.”

“Fuckin sucks,” Steve agrees wryly, and then grins. “I don’t think I’d mind you pullin rank, though.” He gives Sam a ridiculous failure of an eyebrow waggle and Sam bites back a grin.

“I’d say ‘fuck you,’ but—”

“You don’t wanna be late,” Steve says. His grin softens and he presses a kiss to Sam’s temple. 

“Hey.” He kisses Sam’s cheek. “I love you. ‘Ve I told you that?”

“Couple times. I love you, too, baby.”

***

Sam’s tense for the flight to Lyon. The only other person with him is Agent Lee—their best pilot—so that means he probably won’t even meet the sniper before they’re in the field together. He’s never heard of SHIELD ‘hiring out’ to anyone but the Avengers, either. Sam wishes, uselessly, that he could’ve brought Steve. Maybe Sharon—she was a better shot than him on any day, even if he had her beat in tactical ops. Sam will have to place his life in the hands of a man he’s never met, the lives of agents who are relying on him. The whole thing knots in his gut.

They land just as the sun is setting. The city would be beautiful if Sam weren’t scanning every vacant facade for a little glint, checking his chest every few minutes for a red dot. His com won’t link up until it’s in range with Secret Agent Man, and the only location report Coulson has from the guy’s team is a twelve-block area that “could possibly house his position.”

It hits Sam around 10:15 or so. He’s been wandering slowly about the street in his designated direction, playing a local for once—his French is impeccable, if he does say so himself. The little red beam holds steady while Sam shoves in his ear piece. 

“Duval-Roche,” says a voice without preamble.

“Which is…?”

There’s no answer. Sam asks again, but the guy still doesn’t speak. Sam groans and ducks into an alley to pull down his shirtsleeve and tap at his gauntlet.

“How hard is to say ‘two blocks south,’ man,” he grouses. 

The dot blinks—

_Fourth floor._

Sam sneers. Fucking fine, then. He crosses his arms and taps _c-o-p-y_ onto his bicep and the laser flashes twice and then disappears. Sam double checks he can’t be seen from the street and sheds his bulky coat—much too hot for the muggy French summer, probably conspicuous—and takes off. He’s there in less than two minutes, circles the building twice before lands on the fire escape. The fourth floor window is unlocked. Sam slips inside and puts his left shoulder to the wall, gun drawn. He heads toward the only room with a light.

Jumbled voices murmur quietly inside. Sam can’t make out what they’re saying, but it sounds—German? He continues on around the hall and when he passes in front of a row of tall windows the sniper tags him again.

_Fifth floor. Now._

Sam sprints as quietly as he can up the stairs and sure enough, someone cuts off a yell in the men’s room. He busts in just in time to see Brock Rumlow get knocked down. There are three of them, including Rumlow and his attacker. Sam lunges for Rumlow’s assailant and slams the man’s head into the bathroom mirror. The third guy helps Rumlow up. Sam trains his gun on the attacker as he slides to the floor. He’s bleeding from where Sam crushed his nose into the now-fractured glass, and he groans.

“Hey, man.” Rumlow grunts and heaves himself up. “You must be—”

“Sam Wilson, yeah, we’ve met. Let’s go.”

“Right, right.” Rumlow grins. “This’s Jack Rollins.”

Rollins nods to him. 

“And him?”

“Einar Olafson.”

Olfason’s whole face is bloody now, and though Sam knows it’s just the guy’s nose, he grimaces. “And he’s the mole?”

“’S more complicated than that,” Rollins says briskly. “Team’s turned.”

Sam frowns. “That’s not the intel I got.”

“Couldn’t be sure until now,” Rumlow explains with a wry grin. “C’mon. We got a few more to take out.”

Sam cuffs Olafson to a sink pipe and they file out into the hall and back down the stairs to the room with the German-speakers. Rumlow stops them a few feet away and beckons for Sam to lean in.

“Four hostiles,” he says,. “I’ll try to defuse em if I can, but as soon as I give the signal—”

“—get out of here now—”

“—I need you in, guns blazing,” Rumlow finishes.

“Non-lethal take-downs,” Sam insists. “I don like this, man. My orders were to extract.”

“Fury said trust me, right?” Rumlow says sharply.

Sam pulls another face. “I guess, man.” 

“Then trust me, Falcon.”

Sam exhales sharply. Even the numbers don’t add up. Rollins signals them on and then he and Rumlow duck their heads together for a moment outside the door while Sam takes position. Then they slip inside. Sam tenses, but there’s no alarm from the others. Someone asks a question and Rumlow responds in German. Sam taps his goggles, stomach tying itself in knots.

“JARVIS?” he murmurs. “You with me, my man?”

“Yes, sir,” JARVIS answers promptly. “How may I be of service?”

“Record external audio.” 

“Sir.”

A little microphone icon pops up in Sam’s peripheral vision and he shuffles closer to the door. Someone says something sharp and there’s a sound like a scuffle. When Rumlow speaks again, it’s in English.

“There’s no time,” he says. 

“Fuck you!” someone—a woman?—spits out. “This is your fucking fault!” A gun cocks and Sam tenses.

“Look, they know,” Rumlow continues. “We’ve got to get out of here now.”

Sam kicks in the door and for a moment he thinks the crack was splintering wood, but there’s blood on the wall and all the agents except Rollins and Rumlow have hit the deck. One of them is dead. The woman jumps up, fires, misses, and Rumlow punches her square in her face. She slams her knee into his chest, sends him flying into a wall. A dark-haired man jumps up and lunges for Sam with a wild cry. Sam strikes him once, twice, thrice, knees-ribs-face, and a bullet flies through his skull. Sam flings himself back with a grunt and whirls on the window.

“What are you doing!?” he shouts.

“My orders, Falcon,” Rumlow snaps. He spits blood and another man goes down, bullet ringing bright in Sam’s ears. Rollins stands over the last agent and before Sam can say otherwise, he snaps his fingers. Sam throws himself over the guy without thinking, wings up, and another shot cracks through the windowpane. The agent cries out and cringes.

“We had orders to extract,” Sam snaps. “There are three people dead, Rumlow.”

“They attacked us, Falcon.” Rumlow shrugs. “We gave you the signal.”

“I was sent here to help people,” Sam spits. “I was told—one mole. You tellin me within the span of five hours, four more of em turned? And—for who?” Sam steps forward, gripping his weapon tightly. “Who were you even investigating?”

Rollins holds up his hands. “Look—”

“I know you can’t tell me,” Sam snaps. “But it doesn’t matter. We’re takin him in.” He jabs a thumb at the remaining agent. “You, up.”

The man scrambles to his feet. “Th-thank you,” he stutters. “We didn’t—”

“Shut up!” Rollin cracks him over the head and the guy sways. “Don’t listen to a fuckin word, Falcon.”

Sam puts himself pointedly between Rollins and the agent and slaps cuffs on the guy’s wrists. He swipes Agent Lee’s com line open on his gauntlet.

“Wilson, requesting aid with extraction.”

“Negative, Falcon.” Her voice is scratchy. “Got orders to stay grounded until you come to me. Sending coordinates now.”

“Copy that.” Sam flicks his com off and curses. “Fine. You two take Olafson. I’ll take—”

“Brunstein,” says the agent. “Thank you, sir—”

Sam spits out the coordinates and hefts Brunstein into his arms. He kicks the glass out of the window without a word and drops. Brunstein yells.

“Shut up,” Sam mutters. “I’m not gonna drop you, dumb-ass.”

Lee’s coordinates are almost seven hours outside the city, in the foothills of the Alps. Rumlow orders them a van from God-knows-where and he and Rollins disappear to ‘clean up’ while Sam totes the prisoners. It’s terrible protocol, goes against every instinct Sam has, but he also knows deep in his gut that if he doesn’t take the surviving agents now, they’ll be dead before they even reach the quinjet. Agent Lee helps him stow Brunstein and Olafson, now both silent as the grave, and then they wait another two hours for Rollins and Rumlow to show up. Behind them trails another man, long lank hair shadowing his face. He wears what Sam can only call a muzzle, black war paint shadowing his eyes and the bridge of his nose. He has a rifle strapped to his back and a metal arm that catches the rising sunlight.

“This is our sniper,” Rumlow says needlessly. “He—”

“Jakov Androivich,” says the sniper. He nods to Sam and Rumlow guffaws. 

“Yeah,” he sneers. “This is—Jakov Androivich. He’s, uh, Russian.” He grins at Sam, shark-like. Sam doesn’t smile back.

“I thought he was an outside agent,” he says, “but y’all sure gave him orders quick.”

Rollins and Rumlow exchange a look and the later shrugs. “We’re his SHIELD handlers,” he says. “Don’t know much about the uh, people who gave em to us.”

It’s fucking bullshit. “Sure.” 

Sam turns on his heel and the sniper follows him wordlessly aboard the quinjet. He sits as far from everyone else as he can and rests his rifle between his knees. His metal arm goes oddly limp, as though it powered down—sleep mode, no longer in use. It’s unlike any neural-interfaced or body-powered prosthetic Sam has ever seen. It’s made of interlocking metal plates that slide smoothly over one another, and it bears a red star on the shoulder.

“Nice arm,” Sam says, though he knows it’s tasteless. “Stark set you up with it?”

The sniper—twitches. His empty stare raises to a point just past Sam’s left ear. “Target, priority blue—” 

“Soldat,” Rumlow snaps. Androivich’s body goes limp, strings cut.

“He, uh, he’s a little tired,” Rollins offers. 

Sam’s tired, too, so he says nothing, but his trigger finger itches.


	9. Noir

Sam doesn’t know how to talk to Steve when he gets back. He lingers in the blond’s space and then flits away before they can get to close, Steve’s fingers brushing his wrist as he leaves. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Steve, but he’s lost all hope for SHIELD, gets edgy when his boyfriend leaves late and comes home early even though that’s normal for them both. Sam realizes that it’s probably not fair, but he’s been part of Natasha’s assignments before. What’s to stop that from happening with Steve?

Steve lets him get away with it for about a week and then storms Sam’s apartment, armed with two cups of Starbucks and a brown paper bag that smells like the bodega downstairs.

“Okay.” Steve slams down one of the paper cups and throws himself into a chair. “What?”

Sam pushes down his guilty blush and says, “What?”

“Let’s skip the bullshit,” Steve snaps. “I gave you some time to cool down,” he gestures between them, “y’know, space. Post-mission jitters, all that jazz. Some stuff we bring back with us,” he mimes. “C’mon, counselor. The fuck’s on your mind.”

“Maybe I don wanna share,” Sam snaps back, hackles raised. “What happens in those meetings stays there, man. You fuckin know that.”

Steve glares at him for two intense seconds before deflating like a stuck balloon.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “You’re right. ‘M sorry, Sammy.” He slumps a little, juts his chin out and then shakes his head. “Just, please. Talk t’me, okay?”

Sam searches Steve’s blue-and-green eyes and sighs.

“I don’t trust SHIELD anymore, Steve,” he says, “and I don’t know what to do about it.”

Steve sits next to him, eyes trained on Sam’s even as he shifts around to take the weight off his back.

“Tell me, Sam,” he orders

Sam swallows back his nerves and sighs. “This can’t leave the room,” he says. Steve nods vigorously and it’s a testament to Sam’s stress that it doesn’t calm him.

“Coulson called, said I was workin with this guy SHIELD hired. Couldn’t even tell me the guy’s name. Wait,” he says, when Steve’s mouth goes flat. “Wait, don’t tell me that’s normal?”

“…’S not exactly odd.”

“Well, fuck,” Sam spits. “Alright, well, it’s odd for me. And then, the man can’t give me any details other’n I’m ‘extracting five undercover agents,’ no names, no codenames, not even a fuckin yearbook quote.”

“No descriptions? Contacts?”

“Brock Rumlow.”

Steve pulls a face so fast that Sam has to laugh. “Yeah, tha’s what I thought.”

“That can’t be it.” Steve crosses his arms but leans closer so their shoulders touch.

“Course not. But anyway, he reported—a mole in their little group. Have no idea who this person was supposed to be really working for—”

“He may not have been able to say,” Steve points out softly. “I’ve been in that position before. You havta report something’s wrong, but you can’t say what, sometimes cause you don’t know ‘sactly yourself.”

“People died, Stevie,” Sam says. The blond hushes real fast, cheeks draining ever so slightly of their usual pink.

“I got there, with this sniper already waitin for me, and i‘s like everybody except Rumlow and his fuckin partner are dirty. Or at leas that’s how it worked out.” Sam shakes his head, nausea swelling sharp. Steve puts his hand on Sam’s shoulder, and they sit for a moment.

“I told them, my orders were to extract. No lethal take downs. Man, that sniper put other people’s blood on me. Literally.”

“And Rumlow…?”

“Ordered it,” Sam spits. “Rumlow and Rollins snapped their fingers an’ this guy’d crack off a shot faster than anyone I have ever met, Steve. Fuckin scary-ass metal-armed motherfucker.”

“Metal-armed?” Steve’s face is pinched.

“Yeah.” Sam turns more fully to face him. “You heard of the guy? Jakov Androivich. Or tha’s the name he gave me.”

“…No,” Steve says, but his face is careful and spy-blank. “I haven’t heard that name.”

“It jus didn’t make sense,” Sam barrels on. “They said the guy was an outside hire, but the way he worked with Rollins and Rumlow—it didn’ fuckin feel right, man.”

Steve is silent for such a long moment that Sam’s gut clenches. The blond exhales sharply through his nose and says, “You—fuck.”

Steve leaves. Sam sweats as he calculates exit routes, what he can use as a weapon that won’t actually kill Steve. Sam flexes his fist, cracks his neck. He might not even be able to beat his boyfriend if he doesn’t kill him. Steve strolls back in with a heap of files, takes one look at Sam, and pales.

“Oh, baby, no.” He dumps the papers on the table and grasps for Sam’s limp, clammy hand. “I’m such a fuckin idiot. Just—here.” Steve tries to shove him over and eventually gives up and clambers onto Sam’s lap. He pulls the stack of papers towards them and opens the first file. 

“These go back decades.” The first is dated 1957. It details highly classified recruitment data for—-

“Arnim Zola? Wasn’t he a—”

“Fuckin Nazi? Yeah.” Steve snorts. “It gets worse, if you can believe it.”

It does. Genetic experiments, weapons tests with civilian casualties, one or two choice political assassinations. There’s even one dated 1963. SHIELD’s logo is stamped in red on top of each and every page. Another wave of nausea rolls over Sam.

“Jesus,” he whispers. He presses his mouth into Steve’s cool shoulder and closes his eyes. Its all red-black behind his lids, buzzing with the hum of their fluorescent lights. “How—how come no one knows about this shit? Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?” 

“They’re not technically SHIELD files, not any more.” Steve’s lithe fingers clutch at Sam’s arm where it’s wrapped tight around his middle. “I didn’t know—I wasn’t sure I could risk you,” he whispers. 

“I’m at risk, anyway.”

Steve sighs, like he really wishes Sam didn’t know any better.

“It—I wish you woulda said somethin. When you first though it,” he says quietly. “I’m not the enemy, Sam.”

Sam shakes his head. “I know. But you and I also know that your loyalty to your people runs deep. I’m the same way,” he adds when Steve screws up his mouth. “But you’re right, I guess.”

Steve sighs again. “She won’t appreciate me tellin you this, but Nat picked up more than half of these files,” he says.

That pulls Sam up short. Natasha’s always so careful, it’s hard to think of her trusting anyone with conspiracy theories about her mentor’s organization, even an agent she respects. There’s probably more to that story. 

“Call her,” Sam decides. The damning, faded ink glares up from Steve’s sequestered pages. “Some of these need to be translated from the Russian.”

***

Nat’s frowning when she shows up. She doesn’t look at either of them, just plucks the first Cyrillic-covered folder out of the bunch and folds herself onto the couch. Steve huffs and gets up to rattle around the kitchen. Sam lets the sound of the blond pouring more coffee soothe his frayed nerves and plops down next to the spy.

“You gonna ask?”

Nat bites. “Ask what?”

“What short-stuff and I talked about.”

NR exhales sharply and stabs a glance at him out of the corner of her eye. “Why’d you defect, Wilson?” Something must show on Sam’s face, because she sneers and turns to face him.

“If you don’t think that’s how they’ll see it, you’re an idiot,” she snaps. “Becker never should have shown you this.”

“Too late for that now,” Sam retorts. “C’mon, Romanov. You don’t think I eventually would have found this shit?”

“No,” Nat replies bluntly, “because we made sure no one else could get to it.” She flips her hair over her shoulder and glares at Steve, who is wisely still bustling around in the kitchen, out of her immediate reach.

“These are the only existing copies of this information,” she says. “…Maybe.”

That brings Steve over. He doesn’t even have coffee.

“Natasha,” he says sharply. Nat stares at him and he narrows his eyes. “Natalia—”

“Nick Fury is hiding something.” Nat crosses her legs. Her fingers dig nigh imperceptibly into the couch. “I stole something for him, a few weeks ago. And when I decrypted the files—” she nods to the little stack. “I recognized something. Just a piece of data.” Her eyes flick up to Steve. He raises an eyebrow and cross his skinny arms over his chest. 

“Why now?” he asks, and Sam remembers just how left out he can feel from their conversations. 

“What I stole,” says Nat, “and—who I stole it from. I think.” She takes a deep breath. “I think Fury set it up to get stolen in the first place. Or someone set him up, to make it look like he did.”

Sam leans back in his seat. “You think he’s compromised,” he says. “The fuckin director of SHIELD. What the hell does that even mean?”

Sam puts an arm over his eyes. If Nat’s worried, they’re in it worse than he originally thought. “Thought it was pretty bad, too,” he mutters.

“Sam.” Steve’s sitting up, watching Nat like a hawk. “Tell her about the sniper.”

“Sniper?”

“Yeah, listen’a this. Go on, Sammy.”

Sam recounts the fast version of the story for her, and when he mentions a prosthetic, Nat twitches. Sam stares at her, disturbed by her disturbance.

“Was it metal?”

“Uh, yeah,” Sam says. “Steve, you didn’ tell her?”

“Nope.” Steve’s still watching their friend with narrowed eyes.

“Did it have a red star?”

Sam stares at her too, now. Her eyes are unreadable but her shoulders are hunched high out of their normal dancer’s pose and she’s torn the edge of the file in her hands.

“…Yeah. Silver with a red star,” he says. “I didn’ even think about it before, the whole thing was so strange. But you right. It did have a star.”

Sam cocks his head. “Do you know him?”

Nat shakes her head. “I…think he shot me once. A long time ago.” Sam snorts, incredulous.

“And he missed?”

“Sam,” Steve admonishes.

Sam shakes his head. “No, Stevie, you did not see this guy. He shot people through a single hole in that window, three of em, all at different angles. No way this guy missed.”

Nat smiles wryly. “He wasn’t aiming for me,” she says. She lifts up her shirt, and sure enough, a scar sits right above her left hipbone.

“He shot through you.” Sam’s so horrified he’s almost impressed. “Damn.”

“Most of the intelligence community doesn’t believe that he exists. Those who do, call him the Winter Soldier.”

“That’s a fuckin cheesy name.”

“At least we have a heads up,” Nat says, tugging her shirt back down and smoothing her clothes almost embarrassedly. “This won’t go like last time.” She sneers. “No telling who he’s working for…”

Something tugs at Sam’s brain.

“I have something else for y’all,” he says. Sam pulls out his phone and opens his Avengers remote drive. “Here, you speak German, right?”

Steve and Natasha both nod.

“Here,” he says again. “This is from right before Rumlow ordered a strike.”

He plays them the audio JARVIS recorded, watches their faces pale.

“I didn’t even— _fuck_ ,” Steve groans.

“Fuck,” Natasha agrees. “It’s Hydra.”

Sam’s face twists. “Hydra? Like, Captain America, Hydra? Weren’t they supposed to’ve died out with all the other Nazis?”

“Other Nazi extremist groups still exist,” Steve says. He’s glaring a hole in Sam’s phone. “Apparently they’re no different.”

They know. Sam hears the horrified agent’s voice echo in his mind. It’s your fault!

“So Rumlow and Rollins aren’t just dirty,” he says, “they’re Hydra.”

“Apparently,” Nat spits.

“But—it still doesn’t make sense. How did nobody in SHIELD—?” His heart stops.

“No,” he says. “Fuck no. Hell, no. Steve.” He stands, unable to sit still any longer. “We are _not working for Hydra_.”

“Not anymore,” Steve says firmly. “I fuckin quit.”

_“Steve.”_

“We’re taking them down, Sam,” Natasha says. She gets to her feet, and suddenly they’re all standing like idiots in his fucking living room, having just realized their lives are a lie.

“SHIELD may have served a purpose, but it can’t exist anymore,” Natasha continues. Her eyes bore into his. “I copied that drive Fury had me steal from the Lumerian star. We access that intel, we can take them down without breaking a sweat.”

“Look, I don’ even know where to begin plannin for somethin like this,” Sam admits, bitter at every word. “The fuck do we do?”

“We’ll come up with somethin,” Steve insists. “But for now, we just havta make sure no one suspects that we’re anything less than happy.”


	10. Valkyrie

“You know, usually when I get called to an office like this I’m in trouble.”

They’re caught. Sam doesn’t know how Fury knows, but they’re fucking caught. Fury leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. Sam works not to squirm under the man’s gaze.

“Look, I know by now you preciate cuttin straight to it, so here goes: we found the Valkyrie frozen in the arctic.”

Sam blinks. “The Valkyrie?” Fury nods.

“In case you don’t remember—Captain Steven Grant Rogers piloted that ship into the sea in 1945 in order to save New York City from nuclear destruction,” Fury says.

Sam’s heard the stories. Who hasn’t? He blinks and breathes and scrubs a hand over his head. “Tha’s—exciting, Nick, but I don really know why you tellin me. You need me to do somethin?”

“To put it bluntly, yes.” Nick hefts a box up from behind his desk. He sets the package down and rotates it so Sam can open if he wants.

“We found this,” he says. He holds Sam’s gaze. “I want you to take it.”

Suddenly, Sam knows what it is. He doesn’t know if he wants it. Being the Falcon brought more responsibility and press than he ever imagined of his post-military days, and to take this on—Sam taps a finger on the box.

“I don’t know if I’m—patriotic enough for this,” he says. “Unless you wanned to give it a paint job?”

“Those colors don run, son, you know that as well as I. We could dress it up all we wanted, people still gon know where it came from, and what it means.”

Sam crosses his arms over his chest and waits. Fury rolls his eye.

“If it makes you feel better, Captain America wasn much of a patriot either, despite the name,” Fury says. “Man tried to cheat his way into the army, never followed orders, and as far as most historians are concerned, was essentially married to a man for a good fifteen years.”

Sam rolls his eyes and sneers. “Dude was still a walking flag. Do I look like I represent the American Ideal to you?”

“To me? Yes.”

Sam flat out laughs, can’t help it. “Now you bein nice? Man, who are you? I came for a meeting with Nick Fury.”

Fury sighs. “Look, I get it,” he says. “But the point is, I think it’s time for a new Captain America. And you don have to be perfect to take up the shield. You just gotta be stubborn enough to wanna make a change.”

“And you think that’s me?”

Fury studies him for a moment.

“Whadja think,” he asks, “of your last mission? Heard you gave Coulson some grief. Rumlow filed an official complaint and everything.”

Sam’s stomach drops. “Then you know what I thought of my last mission,” he snaps. “Less you didn bother to read his official complaint.”

“No, I read it,” Fury says. He leans forward into Sam’s space and puts his folded hands on his desk. “I jus wanna hear you say it. To my face.”

“Fine.” Sam sits up, a parody of the Director’s pose. “You need to stop keepin shit from your employees, Nick. I can’t do my job right if I don’ actually know what I’m doin. People died last time who shouldn’t have, and that’s blood on your hands.”

“Are you honesly tellin me you think I’d put people in unnecessary risk for my own gain?” Fury snaps, eye narrowing. “You do realize that my organization runs on trust, don’t you?”

“Then your organization is broken.”

The words are out before Sam can help it. Shit. He feels the shudder of blood leaving his face. He played right into it, and Fury probably knows everything now. The Director stares him down, leans back, and says,

“See? Stubborn as hell.”

Sam blinks.

Fury taps one finger hard on the desk and shoves the forgotten box toward Sam. “Take the shield.”

Sam’s heart pounds up in his throat. “Nick, look—”

“Stark’s already made you a new suit,” Fury interrupts. “You’ll have to practice for a while, maybe take up frisbee—”

“Director.” Fury raises his eyebrows.

“I haven’t said yes,” Sam points out. 

“Yeah, but you ain’t gon say no,” Fury says smugly. “Now take this thing outta my office, will you, Cap? ‘S too damn heavy.”

There’s a set of straps in the box so Sam can wear the shield on his back, the way Rogers did. He doesn’t use them. His back twinges at the thought—his therapist says it’s mostly phantom pain, now, as good a meter of stress as his heartbeat. The train ride home is long and people give him strange looks. A couple officers even look like they’re gonna stop him, before Sam flashes them his best press smile and they seem to recognize the Falcon. By the time he gets back to his apartment Sam is ready to pass out on the couch.

“Who the hell put the bed so damn far away,” he mutters. “Tha’s what I wanna fuckin know.”

“Sammy?”

Sam jumps and Steve sticks his head out around the corner from the kitchenette. “Hey, babe. Didja forget you gave me a key?”

“Jus for a sec,” Sam admits. He sighs and pushes himself away from the door, shield balanced awkwardly on his hip. “Gotta show you somethin.”

“That from your meeting?”

Sam nods and Steve sits next to him on the couch. The shield sits between them on the coffee table, innocuous in its brown cardboard. It could be an Amazon purchase, a box of cookies from that bakery Steve likes that Sam thinks is only so-so. He sighs.

“Open it,” he says.

Steve lifts the lid. The paint is chipped—Sam doesn’t know why he didn’t expect it, but a zing of something goes through him, like he’s looked upon sacrilege. Steve gasps. His long fingers skim the smooth surface with something like reverence.

“Holy shit,” he whispers. “I—damn. I heard they found something big, but I didn’t—did they find him?” Steve asks, eyes big. “Did they find Captain America?”

“I’m Captain America,” Sam says dumbly. “I mean—wait, shit, I don even know. I would assume they found a body with the ship.”

“You—way to bury the fuckin lead, Sammy!” Steve’s on his knees on the couch to face him, face flushed. “He made you Captain America? You—took the job?”

“Didn have muchuva choice,” Sam mutters. “He just—gave it to me. Tol me they already did up my suit and everything.”

“That’s fuckin hot.”

Sam’s head snaps so fast his neck twinges. “Excuse me?”

Steve laughs at him and shoves over so his knees dig into Sam’s leg, fingers coming up to play at Sam’s nape.

“You were spacing,” he says. “Though, come to think of it…”

“This is serious, Steve,” Sam snaps.

“I know, Sammy, ‘m sorry.” Steve squeezes the back of his neck and puts his other hand on Sam’s. “And it’s suspicious as fuck—this, I dunno, promotion, I guess, right before our big day.”

It always sounds like they’re planning a wedding. Makes Sam’s stomach burn.

“I know,” he says softly. “I thought—I thought he fuckin new, Stevie. Way he brought me in there.”

“It’s probably a move,” Steve agrees, rubbing Sam’s back. His mouth is lopsided the way it gets when he chews the inside of his lip.

“But,” he continues, slow, “that doesn’t mean this can’t be good. That you won’t be good at it, baby.” Steve catches his eyes, mismatched gaze sincere and narrowed.

“That shield comes with a lot of influence.” Sam’s back twinges and he pulls Steve a little closer, the blond’s knobby knees sliding over his lap.

“I don’t think I want that kind of influence, Steve,” he says quietly. “I don’t think I wanna be a symbol for this country.”

“You served this country, Sam.”

“And I’m proud of my service, but look what fuckin happened,” Sam snapped. “I don’t know if I can just—slap on stripes and pretend I’m okay with the shit America pulls. I know I can’t.”

“So don’t,” Steve says, shrugging like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Wear the stripes, use the shield. Use Fury’s move against him,” he adds fiercely. “Can you imagine the newly minted Captain America taking down SHIELD?” Steve shakes his head. “Talk about a fuckin statement.”

Sam puts his lips to Steve’s shoulder and closes his eyes. He’s not wrong. And Sam isn’t exactly living a life of anonymity as it is—another level of fame couldn’t do much to him that being an Avenger hadn’t already. And if something did happen…

Steve presses a kiss to Sam’s temple and Sam lets his eyes open. “You can do this, baby,” Steve murmurs. “If you want to.”

Sam snorts. “Would be pretty cool. T’have a black Captain America.”

“It would,” Steve agrees softly. “A black bisexual Captain America.” 

Sam chuckles into Steve’s neck and kisses the delicate skin over his throat. “They’re not ready.”

“They’re not,” Steve agrees. “Fuck em.”


	11. A Plan

Sam sees Tony two days after the official announcement. The man’s surprisingly hard to get a hold of given that they work together, but Sam’s long since attributed that to Stark’s love of music at headphone-breaking volume. It’s completely by happenstance. Sam’s pacing the kitchen with his wings on, chewing off the last of his fingernails about Steve’s fucking hare-brained plan, and Tony just waltzes right in, semi-clothed and suspiciously sweaty. He gives Sam a once over and leans back against the door frame. 

“What’s up, Wilson?” he says. “Gonna have start calling you Night Owl—your eyes are red, man.”

Sam rolls his eyes and sends up a half-hearted prayer. “Look, Tony, I’d love to go a few rounds, but honestly, man, I need your help.”

Stark straightens and tilts his head. “Must be serious,” he says mildly. “Whatcha need?”

“JARVIS, you recording?”

“Yes, Captain Wilson.”

“Coulja stop for a sec?”

Tony raises an eyebrow.

“Only momentarily, sir.”

Sam waits, then asks, “How good are you at hacking?”

“I invented it,” Tony says promptly. “Always knew my Christmas presents by July. And what, pray tell, would the upstanding Captain of America like my help in hacking, as it were.”

Sam sets his jaw. “Nick Fury,” he says. 

Tony freezes mid-smirk. Sam holds his gaze and mockingly raises a brow.

“...Well alright then.” Tony rakes his fingers through his hair and shakes his head. “Damn. SHIELD must’a pissed you off somethin good, huh, Cap? No, no, I’m into it,” he says, raising his hands. “You know I’ve never been one for the whole ‘Big Brother’ thing. But uh, aren’t you dating—?”

“Me?”

Stark jumps a foot in the air and yelps, whirling around. “How,” he splutters. “You are so quiet!?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “It’s easy when your target’s loud,” he says pointedly. He hands Tony a jump drive and crosses his arms again.

“We need you to write a program,” he says. “We have sensitive materials under Nick Fury’s SHIELD admin protection. We want to obtain his login information and so we can find out what he’s hiding.”

And just like that, Tony could rightfully turn them in. Sam crosses his arms and watches Steve go through all his tells, rocking back on his feet, thumbs hooked in his pockets, cocking his head to the side so his good ear is exposed.

“Audio recording resumed, sirs.” Sam jumps. 

“Give me forty-five minutes,” says Tony. 

He does it in thirty.

“I still think your plan is terrible,” he tells when he hands over the drive Steve. “And I’m a horrible planner, so maybe—”

“I didn’t ask you, Stark,” Steve snaps, but the bridge of his nose turns red.

To be fair, it is a terrible plan, even though it’ll probably work. Steve created a ‘shitty-ass gen login’ back before he was officially recruited—he wanted to poke around SHIELD’s servers to see if he really wanted to work for them. “Obviously missed some stuff,” he says wryly. He’ll set up somewhere with a security alarm, use the login to access the SHIELD mainframe, and trigger a response. Fury will hopefully—and that right there is enough to make Sam edgy—use the admin code attached to his ID to track the hacker. Natasha will use Tony’s program, which he’s written specifically to attach to Fury’s ID, to download the Director’s login data and send it to Stark secure server. 

“That will give us full access to every file on that drive,” Nat explains. “Like I said, I think we already have what we need to take SHIELD down. We just need access to it.”

“And he won’t know what we’ve taken from him,” Tony adds. 

“Program’s clever like that. We’ll get any and all data associated with his ID—login information, known associates, access log, hell, his route home from work.” Tony grins. “It’ll throw him long enough for us to clean up.”

“It seems like there’s an easier way to do this,” Sam grumbles.

“There are several,” Nat assures him. “But we have to get a little sloppy—”

“Why?” 

“Throw him off,” Steve says with a wry smile. He shoves his glasses up his nose. “You’ll be surprised how much you can get done if people don’t think you can do it.” 

The next thing they’re hoping for—there’s that word again—is that Fury will call in his best spy to investigate the person who hacked him, and Natasha will use the opportunity to wipe any lingering trace of Steve’s work. As long as no one interrupts them…

“It’ll be fine,” she says. They’re sitting on his bed at three am, nursing glasses of red wine, _Troubleman_ humming softly in the background. Steve’s asleep after an unknown allergen triggered an hour of asthma attacks and wheezing, dead to the world with his hearing-aid out. Sam strokes his fine blond hair and soothes a wrinkle in his brow.

“I mean.” Nat shrugs. “Probably. Don’t worry about it.”

“I miss Barton,” Sam says sincerely.

She smacks him, and they don’t talk about it again.


	12. Sting

“If you get arrested, I don’t know you,” Sam says. 

Steve undoubtedly rolls his eyes. “Thanks for the confidence, Cap,” he drawls. There’s a muffled ‘tap’ like he’s adjusting his hearing aid, and then, “It’s gonna work.”

“Uh-huh.” Sam finishes lacing his boots and frowns. “What’s the signal again?”

“What? I di——”

“ _Oh, officer, see, I can explain——_ ”

“Fuck you! My voice is not that high.” 

Steve grunts and there’s a sharp moan, straining metal. “I’m in.”

“I’m serious,” Sam insists. “I’m not bailin your ass outta jail, you get caught.”

Steve doesn’t reply. Sam’s comm beeps and he presses a hand to his ear. 

“He in?” 

“He’s in,” says Sam. “Hey, Nat. You downstairs yet?”

“Carport.”

They set up in a cafe five blocks away from the little office Steve picked—the closest the spies will allow, the farthest that Sam can stand.

“Alright, almost in the lab now,” Steve says. His voice has a strange, echo-muffled quality to it.

“You’re crawling through the vents, aren’t you?”

“Well, Hawkeye does occasionally have good ideas.”

Nat snorts. “Idea,” she corrects. “He sometimes has a good idea.”

“Annually,” Sam agrees.

Steve ignores them. Natasha orders their usual fare—it’s one of her favorite diners, and this is 

“I’m in.” Steve’s ever-so-slightly out of breath and Sam clamps down on the highly inappropriate heat that surges up in his belly.

Steve has a copy of Tony’s program. He’ll log on to the SHIELD server and tap certain info that will sure to get Fury’s attention. Once the Director attempts to trace him, Tony’s program will download any and all admin data associated with Fury’s ID and dump it onto JARVIS’s server.

“Accessing mainframe now.”

“So, I did have a question,” Sam says. They’ve brought some paperwork with them, run-of-the mill reports they usually do together in diners like this, so they have some cover if they need to talk.

“About…?”

“Is—the server we’re using untraceable?”

Nat raises a brow and Sam huffs. “You know what I mean,” he says. “When we download that data to—the server we’re using. Won’t there be some sort of trace back to it?”

“There he is,” Steve says. “And…it’s working so far.”

“You’re right,” Nat agrees, as though Steve hasn’t said anything. “That’s why we clean up, remember?”

Her phone rings. “Right on time,” she mutters. “Romanov.” Nat smirks at Sam. “Yessir. I’ll be there in five minutes. Oh, and I’m out with Wilson,” she adds. “Should he tag along?” Sam rolls his eyes at her and mouths, cheeky. She flicks his shoulder.

“Got it. Report soon, sir.”

Sam lets Natasha drag him back out to the car and they speed off. He chats up the security guard—apologizing maybe a little too sincerely for her having to come out on a Saturday—and Nat peruses the building. She reaches the desk Steve must have used and begins to type.

“Ma’am,” says the guard, “do you need the—oh.”

She’s already in. Sam just shrugs and smiles at the guard’s wide-eyed glance.

“Not much left, but that’s not surprising,” Nat reports.

“What did they take from us, Cap?” the guard asks. “I’ve already notified my supervisor, but—”

“Your office was used to remotely access sensitive files on another server,” Sam explains, while Natasha types. “There’s nothing for you or your company to worry about, ma’am.”

Nat closes her window and shuts down the computer. She smiles at the guard.

“Thanks,” she says, honey sweet. “You’ve been very helpful. I’m sure we’ll be in touch.” 

The guard shows them out with a pleased pink flush dusting her cheeks and Sam knocks NR’s shoulder.

“You’re a dog,” he accuses. Nat grins at him, razor-sharp.

“Spider,” she corrects. “What? She was cute.”

Sam rolls his eyes. His text alert sounds and he spares a glance for his screen.

_Tell your boyfriend he’s supposed to need a key._

Sam grins. He thumbs open his dial screen and punches in Steve’s number. “Tony’s upset with me,” the blond says without preamble. “Were his doors supposed to be locked?”

“I rather resent that, sir,” JARVIS says forlornly in the background. Sam laughs and bites back another smile. He mouths Tower, and Nat nods.

“Should we wait…?”

“Nah, it’ll be faster if you just get started and get us up to speed,” Sam says. “See you soon, baby.”

Steve makes a sound like he’s smiling. “Love you.” Sam hangs up. Nat grimaces at her own phone screen and shoots Sam a side-eyed look.

“You’re gross,” she says. Sam smirks and shrugs.

Nat doesn’t speed on the way to Tony’s, but it’s a close thing. She pulls up in front of the Tower and presses a kiss to Sam’s temple. He huffs and raises an eyebrow at her, pauses with the door half open.

“I’ve got something to take care of,” Nat tells him. “You and Becker get started.”

“What? NR, c’mon,” Sam closes the door again. “Really?”

“It’s nothing, Wilson,” Nat admonishes, rolling her eyes. “Fury texted me about the job. Wants me to report in. Just go on, shoo. I’ll be in touch.”


	13. Interrupted

Most of what’s on the drive is fairly predictable. More assassinations, some of which Fury ordered, some he apparently vehemently opposed. There are also a disturbing number of experimental weapon specs. Most of them don’t seem important enough to linger on, as almost all of them are marked FAILED, but Tony stays their hand several times, muttering as he reads.

“A lot of this,” he says slowly, “is based on my tech.” Sam is silent. Tony sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “This is why we don’t become international arms dealers, kids,” he mutters. “JARVIS? Send this off to Pepper. See what we can do.”

“Already compiling a zip file, Sir.”

“Is it a good idea to get her involved, Tony?” Sam asks quietly.

“Stark Tech is her company. She’s already involved,” Tony snaps. “Sorry, sorry, Cap. I just—tried to put this behind me, you know?”

Which must be hard, when that much blood stains your hands. Sam just squeezes Tony’s shoulder and says, “I know, man. Just thinkin about her safety.”

“Me too.”

The next time they come across a tech-heavy file, Steve simply slides it Tony’s way.

They read for what feels like hours, but when Sam checks it’s barely been forty-five minutes. He sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. “I’m already exhausted,” he admits. Steve sighs and nods.

“Me too, Sammy. We’re almost done though. We’ve got two folders left.” He gestures to the screen. “One ‘Untitled,’ and the other is—Project Insight? Stark, this has your stamp on it.”

“Gimme.” Tony makes grabby hands without looking away from his current text. Steve slides the file from his screen to Tony’s, and the computer dings pleasantly. “Thaaank you.”

Stark steps fully out into the hall and crosses his arms over his chest with a sigh. “I just got a text from Coulson. She’s been ‘taken in for questioning’.” Tony sneers. “But get this. Fury didn’t authorize it. It was the fucking Secretary—”

“Pierce?” Steve’s on his feet again, fast enough to leave Sam dizzy. “Fucking weasel.” Steve’s face is pinched. He stomps back into Stark’s lab and throws up a picture on the wall. Sam frowns.

“I think I met him at that press conference where they announced me as Cap,” he says. “Doesn’t he sit on the World Security Counsel?” 

“Yeah,” Steve mutters, typing furiously. “If there’s anyone who could set up Fury, or Nat—” He shakes his head.

Sam rubs his eyes. “How’d they catch her?”

“Good question,” Steve mutters. “It can’t have been this—” He checks his phone again.

“Fuck,” he snaps. “Fucking Lumerian Star. They probably have Fury, too. Or they will soon.” Steve shakes his head and turns to press a quick kiss to Sam’s cheek. “Gotta make a call.”

He saunters out into the hall and Sam forces himself to turn away and take a breath. Tony nudges his shoulder and flashes a smile. 

“Widow’ll be fine,” he says. “She’s the only person I know who can get information by being interrogated. And I’m pretty sure your boyfriend is calling in the cavalry anyway.”

“Probably.” Sam breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth, closes his eyes for a minute. It doesn’t help much. He knows—he knows what to do when a panic attack comes up on him like this. 

“Wanna keep going?” Tony asks quietly.  
Steve’s phone buzzes and Sam takes over clicking through the ache. It takes him a moment to realize what the first few files contain.

“Adoption agency guidelines?” Sam’s nose crinkles and he opens another one. “Looks like th—Steve?”

Steve’s face is blank, and for a moment, Sam can’t help but picture the sniper, sitting with his limp arm and his rifle propped against his knee.

“Steve.” Sam puts a hand on his shoulder. Steve passes him his phone wordlessly and launches himself out of his seat. “Steve!” 

Sam gets up and does a double-take at the phone. It’s a text from a number he doesn’t recognize and simply reads, take care of Lester.

“Lester?” Sam repeats. “Steve!” He follows his boyfriend out into the hall and finds him with his back against the wall, elbows propped on his knees.

“Honey, I don’ know what this means,” he tries.

Steve doesn’t look up. Sam sits across from him and stretches out one leg to nudge at his boyfriend’s shins.

“Take care of Lester?”

Steve’s eyes water and he blinks it furiously away. “Nat’s cat,” he croaks. “It’s code. She’s compromised.”

Sam’s heart stutters and he steadies himself with a hand on his thigh. “Fuck. Are you—no, tha’s dumb. Do you know who has her?”

“SHIELD.”  
Sam sighs and opens the adoption files again. They get Fury out, they can clear Nat. “’S the only thing we can do right now,” he mutters. “But—why have these? What’s the point?”

“Maybe Fury was denied a kid?”

Sam swipes a piece of Stark’s scrap paper.

_Clark-Seagan Services_  
Our Lady of Mercy  
Allied Adoption  
Women’s Family Network (NYC)  
Albany Center for Children and Families  
Christian Spirit Ministry  
New York Children’s Home 

Sam drums the pen on the the table and jumps when arms slide around his waist.

“Called Rhodes,” Steve murmurs. “Know he works with Pierce.” Steve frowns at the paper. “Huh.”

“What?”

“My moms got me from Allied Adoption. Wait—how’d you make this list?” 

“Fury’s stuff.”

Steve picks up the paper. “I know...four of these,” he says.

“Hey, uh,” Sam turns. “Tony, could—?”

Stark holds up his hands. “I’m gone,” he says. “I’ll keep goin in my other lab.”

Sam waits until Tony’s rambled out of the room and puts a hand on Steve’s shoulders.

“My biological mother went to three of these places before she left me at Allied,” Steve says. “It might be a coincidence, but—”

“It’s probably not.” Sam curls a hand over Steve’s nape and takes a steadying breath. Fury hand-picked Steve for his organization, probably already had this on him, too.

“There’s another name that lines up here—five out of seven times—” 

“Enrique Barrientos?”

Sam stares at his boyfriend. “Yeah.” 

Steve scrawls the name next to Sam’s list and straightens.

“Let’s go.”

“Slow down, Stevie, hang on.” Sam tugs at his his hand. “Let’s get some food and figure out what we need to do, okay?”

“Nat’s in fuckin custody, Sam!” Steve snaps. “How—”

“And we need to slow down,” Sam insists. “We end up caught, we can’t help her.” He takes Steve’s hand again and pulls the man in close. “Jus listen to me on this, okay, short stuff?”

Steve grimaces but kisses Sam’s temple anyway. “Where would I be without you?”

Sam snorts. “Jail.”


	14. Private Investigation

They end up on the floor of Steve’s apartment with too many boxes of Chinese takeout, drinking coffee out of champagne flutes. Steve’s taken out his hearing aid and his contacts, so their David Bowie is too loud and his glasses keep slipping down his nose. Sam has a sudden, deep surge of grief that Natasha will never do this with them again and stamps down the sting in his eyes. It won’t help and it’s not true.

“My mother went to a private investigator to help her find an adoption agency,” Steve says. “He cased at least four of the services listed in Fury’s files, probably all of em—Nick’s good.” The agent scoffs. “I didn’t even get this far.”

“Yeah?” Sam leans forward and puts his chin in his palm, tries for casual. “You don’ really talk about your biological mom too much.”

“Mmm. The Moms didn’t know much. Just said her name was Clara.” Steve huffs and the corner of his mouth lifts.

“Clara Reeds,” he elaborates. “24 years old NYU graduate with a BA in Public History. Family in California. She stayed at a private hospital—Kierstoff Medical—because the pregnancy was so high-risk. She kept me for almost 10 months, named me Steve, and gave me to Enrique Barrientos, a private investigator. I still don’t really know why she, well—the guy’s pretty tight lipped, y’know?” Steve runs a hand through his hair.

“He dropped me off at Allied Adoption for good on November 28th, 1986.” Steve leans back into his couch.

“She died in a car crash in ‘92.” Sam puts a hand on his boyfriend’s knee but Steve just shrugs.

“’S not like I knew her,” he mutters. “It’s—it bugs me, though, y’know? I’ve never been able to find out more. About my father or anything.”

“She didn’ have any SOs at the time?”

Steve shakes his head. “The only record of her dating anyone was from two years before I was born. An’ she wrote a—pretty awesome essay about women not being obligated to bear children when she was in college.” Steve grind. “I think I woulda liked her.”

Sam laughs at him. “Yeah, probably,” he says. He jostles Steve’s shoulder. “Your Moms are great, and I’m glad they adopted you, but I’m also sorry you never got to meet your birth mother.”

Steve shrugs. “Me too. But it is what it is. Besides,” he laughs wryly. “She obviously didn’t want me. My moms did.”

Sam’s mouth twists and Steve shakes his head. “It’s okay, Sam, really, it is.”

He chooses to move on. “What about the hospital? Kierstoff-Meidcal?”

“Shut down in ‘97.”

“So we don’t really have anything new.” Sam sighs. “Why does Fury have this stuff?”

“I dunno.” Steve crosses his arms and tssks. “I know he investigates all of us, right? But why’m I the only one in his ultra-secret file?”

“Maybe your Moms are secretly a super-duo?”

Steve snorts. “You’re onto us, Wilson. I’m surprised it took you so long—everyone’s heard of the lesbian paramedic-teacher duo, First Grade Response.”

Sam laughs so hard he wheezes and his belly aches. Steve leans against him, smiling against his shoulder.

“I ever tell you how beautiful you are?” he says. Sam laughs again, feels his cheekbones heat.

“I’m sorry this is happening, baby.” Sam kisses the corner of Steve’s mouth.

“I’m sorry, too,” Steve retorts. “I know it’s not my fault, don’t gimme that look, Sammy. Still, just, don’t like you all mixed up in this.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “I’m gonna choose to say that’s sweet instead of patronizing, First Grade Responder.” His phone buzzes again. “Tony’s got something new for us.”

Steve gets his laptop and Sam makes himself busy refilling their coffee. He rinses the glasses first, pours slowly—if the feeling in his gut means anything, Tony’s only got more on Steve’s biological parents. He deserves a moment. When Sam wanders back Steve waves him hurriedly down and taps too-hard at his touch screen.

“Fertility trials,” he says. He squints at the screen and pushes his glasses up again

“Look at this—at least twenty women, including Clara Reeds, donated their eggs to this place called Bachman Fertility. Their advertising claims they were researching egg preservation and transplant methods—alternatives to surrogates…what the fuck does that mean?”

Sam figures it out a split second before his boyfriend’s face pales. 

“Stevie—”

“There’s no records of my father,” Steve whispers. Sam grips his wrist—his heart hammers under Sam’s thumb, arrhythmic. “They artificially inseminated her without her consent.”

“Sweetheart—”

Steve stands, face pinched. He pulls out his phone and starts typing furiously. “Give me five minutes.”

*** 

The PI is at Madison and 128th, just a few blocks from where Sam’s auntie used to live. Steve’s friend Jessie says the guy’s pretty reclusive, doesn’t take many cases—she hasn’t seen him in months. They knock and the door creeks open under Sam’s fist.

“That’s not good.”

Steve draws his service weapon from God-knows-where and Sam readjusts his vest, un-tucks his shirt and thumbs his holster.

“Enrique Barrientos? My name is Sam Wilson, I need to talk to you about a case. I’m gonna enter now, okay?”

Steve glares at him and mouths, Sam! Sam shakes his head and pushes the door open.

None of the lights are on. It’s a shitty studio, just a bed and a couch and a desk with no decorations to speak of.

“Enrique Barrientos?” Sam calls again. Nothing. He tries the lights—nothing. Sam pulls out his phone and turns on the flashlight. He makes sure his face can be seen from the open door where Steve is hiding and mutters, “I’m goin in.”

Every footstep creeks over Barrientos’ hardwood floor. Sam makes his way around the bed first then to the couch, doesn’t see any signs of a struggle. He finds the body behind the desk.

“Shit!” Sam shoves his fingers under Barrientos’ neck, but there’s no pulse. He’s still warm. “It’s not good,” he whispers, though he doesn’t know if Steve can see his mouth now. “He’s dead.”

Sam flicks his safety off, laments not bringing a damn flashlight as he crosses his wrists, phone balanced awkwardly below his gun. He starts in the corner nearest to him, radiator, bookshelf, kitchen counter, window—

Sam inches forward and squints into the dark. He tilts his the light back over the window pane.

His phone shatters a split second before the crack of the bullet explodes in his ear. Sam reels. He catches himself on the edge of the desk and doesn’t bother to shoot—the Winter Soldier will have moved. Steve comes snarling past him and is out the window in seconds.

“Steve!” Sam bellows.

He tears off after the blond. Outside Steve has already engaged. The Soldier keeps all of his weight on his left leg as he fights, quiet grunts pushed from his chest with every blow Steve lands. His metal arm has black paint splashed sloppily up to the shoulder, obscuring most of the shining silver. Steve ducks a sharp jab and kicks the sniper’s right knee. The Soldier gasps. Sam shoots him in the shoulder and his broad back flinches, but he doesn’t stop. He takes the knife Steve shoves through his right hand and lifts the blond by the neck with his left. Sam yells. He shoots the Soldier again and rushes him from the side, but the sniper sweeps Sam’s legs out from under him, heedless of his own bleeding. His eyes are narrowed and sharp and Sam can almost see the snarl under his mask.

Sam kicks him again, earning a satisfying crack, and jumps to his feet just in time for the Soldier to send Steve crashing into his chest. Sam wraps his arms around him and they roll. Steve digs his nails into Sam’s forearm.

“Hold on!” Sam snaps. “We gotta come at him together, Steve!”

The Soldier freezes. His pupils are blown. Steve’s on his feet with his gun raised, throat red. He wheezes with every breath but he sneers anyway.

“Who are you?” Steve rasps.

“Stevie?” the man says.

Steve twitches and his hands flexes on the gun. Sam gets to his feet, desperately wishing for his wings, his shield. He own gun lies uselessly near the roof’s edge. His head throbs but he drops into a stance anyway, hands ready.

“I know you.” The Soldier stumbles over nothing and cradles his bleeding hand to his chest.

“No you fuckin don’t,” Steve snaps. He buries a cough in the crook of his arm, eyes never leaving the sniper, and the man’s face crumbles.

“Fuck you doin out here, Stevie?” Sam and Steve share a wide-eyed glance. The sniper’s voice is impossible, smooth and full of care.

“Gonna catch a cold,” he continues.

Steve snaps off a warning shot over the Soldier’s ear, and the man doesn’t even flinch. “Who are you!?” he bellows.

“Steve!” Sam hisses. He inches toward his gun. “Take him down or we have to go. The cops’re gonna be comin, man.”

The Winter Soldier takes a hesitant step forward and says, “is it permanent?”

Steve shoots him in his bad leg. The sniper lets out a wounded cry and spins around. He’s over the side of the roof just as Steve takes a second shot.

“Shit,” he mutters.

Sam picks up his gun and wipes the blood running into his eye. “You get em?”

“No.” Steve grimaces and saunters over to the ledge. “Fuckin threw me off.”

Sam could tell. He puts a hand on Steve’s waist and nods to the street, where police sirens wail. “We’ve gotta go, honey.”

Steve huffs. He holsters his weapon—under his shirt, high up on his back—and cups Sam’s face with one delicate hand.

“Got your eye pretty good,” he murmurs, thumb swiping through blood. “You okay, baby?”

Sam hums and nods. Steve snorts at him.

“Me neither,” he says. “Let’s go.”


	15. Unplanned Parenthood

Stark is bouncing around his lab like a pinball when they get back. He’s called in Bruce, who’s hunched and muttering over a tablet. Rhodey is also there, much to Sam’s relief, and he smiles at them.

“Tony tried to text you,” he says.

“Seven! Times!”

Rhodey shrugs. “He got a little worried.”

“You were, too!” Tony wags his finger at Rhodes and grimaces. “The fuck happened, Cap?”

“My phone’s shot.”

“I know it’s a shitty phone, but—oh.” Sam places the pieces in Tony’s hand and the engineer blinks.

“Okay,” he says. “See! I had reason to be worried!”

“Y’all alright?” Rhodey asks, frowning. Sam nods and Steve scoffs.

“Well, we have something for you,” Stark says. “JARVIS?”

A blue hologram flickers into shape. “Further research into the Bachman Fertility Group revealed some not-so-unexpected problems,” JARVIS begins. “Dr. Richard Bryer, the main research director, had no medical license on record before Bachman Fertility began recruiting young women for its cause.”

Sam presses his shoulder into Steve’s. The blond exhales slowly through his nose and slips a warm hand under Sam’s shirt, palm splayed over the small of his back.

“Unsurprisingly, Richard Bryer’s an alias,” says Rhodey. “His real name is Dr. Wolfgang Föstner. He was put under witness protection when he supposedly defected. Who he defected from—isn’t exactly listed.”

Sam bets he can guess. Steve’s fingers dig into his back.

“That’s not all.” Rhodey flips to a new image, and Sam’s heart sinks. “We did some cross-referencing with some very illegal files that Tony does not actually have access to,” Rhodes glares at his friend for a moment, “and as it turns out, one William Frost was listed on the arrest list for—”

“A Hydra raid.” Steve leans forward, knuckles white where he’s gripping Stark’s worktable.

“But this is where it gets really interesting,” Tony says, rubbing his hands. He pulls up another slide, grin twitching at the corners of his mouth, and Rhodey says, “Tony.”

Stark whips around and stares at him for a moment. Their faces change, conversing with out a word, and when Tony turns back his expression is carefully blank.

He clears his throat. “Among the other list of gnarly things Wolfie worked on for the giant squid, we found a name—Project Rebirth. And guess what the last file of Fury’s drive was.”

Tony zooms in. The document’s German text flickers as JARVIS translates, but Sam can already feel his stomach falling away.

“It’s the only copy we could find,” Tony says.

In the middle of the report sits a list of numbers. The fifth row from the bottom, second column, is Steve’s birthday.

“The document describes the details of Hydra’s attempts at human cloning,” JARVIS says softly. “As you can see, it lists Agent Becker-White’s birthday, along with twenty-one other sets of subject ID numbers.”

Sam’s head swims. His ears ring with an empty, after-bomb silence even though JARVIS is _still talking _.__

__“While we have been unable to find correlation with the numbers in the first column thus far, it is safe to conclu—”_ _

__“My mother lived on 42nd street when she had me,” Steve says. “She was—she’d just turned twenty-four.”_ _

___4224 010586 ____ _

____Sam swallows down bile._ _ _ _

____“We don’t know what it means, yet,” Rhodey says quickly. Steve juts his chin out but he’s pale and blinking in the lab light._ _ _ _

____“Rhodes,” Sam snaps. Steve’s head falls and he stares at his hands._ _ _ _

____“That’s why there’s no record of my father,” he croaks. He swallows, tries again to speak and fails._ _ _ _

____“Becker? Steve?” Tony’s face is hard. “Do you—it lists a name. As the—uh. Original donor. For the DNA they used.”_ _ _ _

____Steve straightens up. His hand falls away from Sam’s back and Sam catches it, tangles their fingers tight._ _ _ _

____Stark huffs. “It says—SGR. That’s it.”_ _ _ _

____Steve scoffs. “That’s fuckin useful. SGR? Initials? Code? What—”_ _ _ _

____“Steven Grant Rogers,” says Sam._ _ _ _

____The room quiets. Steve’s head snaps around and he stares, mouth agape._ _ _ _

____“What?” he hisses. “Sam—”_ _ _ _

____“Not everything Hydra has to do with Captain America,” Rhodey says slowly. “What makes you think that?”_ _ _ _

____“It’s on my shield,” Sam says. His thumb twitches and he can feel the letters, etched on the inside of the rim in thin capital lettering. “SGR.”_ _ _ _

____“That doesn’t mean anything,” Steve snaps. He isn’t holding Sam’s hand anymore. His fists are clenched at his side and he’s slid into a stance Sam’s only seen before someone gets hurt._ _ _ _

____“Becker—”_ _ _ _

____“Why,” Steve demands, eyes boring into his. “What else?”_ _ _ _

____“You look like him,” Sam realizes. “Not—not Cap, but Steven Rogers. Before they gave him the serum.”_ _ _ _

____“Bullshit,” Steve snaps, but his eyes are wide._ _ _ _

____But he does. It’s subtle enough—Steve’s eyes are different, his hair’s a little darker, and he’s a taller, but it’s there when Sam looks for it, like a faded photograph turned sharp. “How much you weigh, Steve?”_ _ _ _

____“Fuck you.”_ _ _ _

____“You gained some, finally,” Sam says. “Got up to, what, one-oh-two?” Stark curses softly in the background but Sam barrels on. “He weighed ninety-five pounds before they pumped him full of that shit. He had astigmatism, asthma, he even had a bad ear—”_ _ _ _

____“Stop!” Steve bellows. “I’m not a fucking clone!” His breathing is labored, face pink, quickly deepening to red. Sam holds up his hands._ _ _ _

____“Inhaler,” he says._ _ _ _

____Steve glares at him and fumbles in his pockets for his MDI. He sucks two deep lung-fulls of medicine and waves Sam away when he tries to step into Steve’s space._ _ _ _

____“Fuck off,” he snaps. “Shit. I just—sorry. I need a minute.” He takes another long, deep breath with his medicine and pockets it again. Sam bites his lip. His fingers itching to pull Steve back in. The blond stares hard at Stark’s document for a moment and then he sighs._ _ _ _

____“We’re going to need something better than that,” he says finally. “Is there anyway too—?”_ _ _ _

____“We can run a blood test,” Bruce pipes up. He’s got his hands in his pockets, face smooth. “No one’s supposed to have Captain America—well, Steven Rogers’ DNA, but Hydra did, and uh.” He motions to the floating text. “They might be evil Nazi scientists, but their data records are impeccable.”_ _ _ _

____“Even if it is him, how did they even get their hands on that?” Rhodey wonders._ _ _ _

____Something clicks. “The Valkyrie,” Sam blurts. “We found the Valkyrie, a while back. Who’s to say they didn’ get to it first?”_ _ _ _

____“There would’ve been signs. SHIELD woulda seen somethin. We woulda seen something.” Rhodes wipes a hand down his face. “Jesus, how did we miss this?”_ _ _ _

____“SHIELD probably didn’t,” Steve mutters. “If all this is right, Hydra’s been operating within SHIELD for years.”_ _ _ _

____Sam’s digs his nails into his palm and grits his teeth to ask, “Fury?”_ _ _ _

____“Now that’s a good question,” Tony says. He pulls up a profile. “He was recruited by SHIELD in the eighties, when Steve-o here was born, but he didn’t become director until 1999.”_ _ _ _

____“So how much would he have known?” Rhodey crosses his arms. “Especially cause—when did you say the earliest mod dates for these files were?”_ _ _ _

____“2002.”_ _ _ _

____“That’s why he recruited me,” Steve whispers. “He fuckin new. It had nothin to do with—” He shakes his head._ _ _ _

____“Steve,” Sam snaps._ _ _ _

____Steve juts out his chin and glares. “You can’t say anything to make this better.”_ _ _ _

____“Steven,” Sam says, “if all Fury wanted to do was keep an eye you, he’d-a tapped your phone. Instead, he hired you, because you’re small and angry and good at what you do.”_ _ _ _

____Steve opens his mouth, closes it, rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “I don’t like you.”_ _ _ _

____“Liar.”_ _ _ _

____Steve kisses Sam’s knuckles for good measure and keeps hold of his hand as he strides purposefully to Bruce._ _ _ _

____“We won’t know until we run tests, right?”_ _ _ _

____Bruce nods apologetically and offers a soft smile. “If you’d roll up your sleeve, we can get started.”_ _ _ _

____Banner isn’t exactly a medical doctor but he gives Steve what could pass for a physical anyway. It’s good; the blood-draw isn’t nearly as climactic as it could be. Steve talks quietly with Bruce about Clara Reeds’ medical history while JARVIS analyzes his bodily fluids. Sam knows it’s going to be a match, but the dread weighing down the pit of his stomach still has an uncertain quality to it._ _ _ _

____“Results on the screen, Dr. Banner,” JARVIS says._ _ _ _

____Bruce breathes slowly. “Give me a moment to go over the analysis, okay?”_ _ _ _

____Steve takes a pointed step away and keeps close to Sam’s side. Sam takes one cool hand and tucks it in the crook of his elbow._ _ _ _

____“Whatever it is, baby, I’m here,” Sam says quietly. He puts his hand over Steve’s and squeezes, catches his eyes. “You gonna stay?”_ _ _ _

____Steve sighs, but he doesn’t look away. “I’m here,” he says firmly._ _ _ _

____Bruce clears his throat. There’s a diagram floating above them with several points of light highlighting two graphs._ _ _ _

____“It’s a match,” he says. Sam keeps breathing, moves his chest up and down. “See, th—_ _ _ _

____“So I’m a clone,” Steve says dully._ _ _ _

____“In a way.” Bruce bites his lip. “These are the typical STRs tested in paternity test—” He zooms in on part of the chart—“but that’s not all you have in common. He’s—more than a paternal zygote donor, sure, but see this?” He zooms out again. “All this? Your mom. So you’re not just a—a copy.”_ _ _ _

____“No,” Steve says softly. “Just a Hydra experiment.”_ _ _ _

____“Okay! We’re done.” Sam takes Steve’s hand and pulls. “We need some time. Call him if anything new comes up.”_ _ _ _

____“Sam—”_ _ _ _

____“Nope.” Sam shakes his head and for once Steve lets his mouth fall closed, and Sam knows for sure now that they need a break. “Let’s go.”_ _ _ _

______ _ _

***

Steve tries to argue that it’s too dangerous for them to go home together, but Sam glares him into silence and they head back to Harlem. He let’s Steve check all the locks and then herds him into bathroom. He waits until he hears the shower running and then makes up the bed with every blanket he can find, because Steve gets cold. He makes popcorn. He turns on AMC and burrows under the covers so that only his head peeks out and digs in, heedless for once of the crumbs in his sheets. Sam gets through about half the bag before he remembers that they haven’t talked about Steve’s mother yet. The kernels turn sour in his mouth. She was ‘sick’ for the duration of her pregnancy, kept in a hospital—Sam drops the food over the side of the bed and pulls the covers up tight under his chin. They probably won’t ever know what Hydra did to Clara Reeds for nine months, and Sam isn’t sure he wants to know. But she survived, stubborn as her son, and managed to keep Steve away from the people who made him.

Sam snorts. “Steve,” he mutters. “Can’t believe she fuckin—named after his Daddy. Jesus.”

Steve joins him just after Sam’s managed to quiet the buzz in his cotton-stuffed brain enough to doze. He buries his face between Sam’s shoulder blades and wraps him up with a sigh. His knobby knees press just into the back of Sam’s thighs. His hair is damp and cool where it tickles Sam’s neck but his skin is dry.

“D’jou clime outha winduh?” Sam mumbles.

Steve snorts and kisses his nape.

“I know you said somethin,” he says.

Sam smacks his lips and prizes his eyes open. “You climbed out the window,” he says again, louder.

“...only for a second,” Steve grumbles. “I came right back in.”

Sam wriggles around to face his boyfriend and presses little closed-mouth kisses to Steve’s jaw until the blond catches his mouth, licks his lips open with strong fingers gripping Sam’s chin. Sam hums into Steve’s mouth and gasps when Steve catches his tongue between his teeth. The blond pushes him down and straddles his waist, puts up a good show of trying to suck Sam’s tongue out of his mouth. Sam bucks up and works his hips until his boyfriend’s panting into his mouth, fingers twisted in Sam’s shirt.

“I love you,” Sam gasps. “Honey, I love you so much—”

“Shut up,” Steve growls.

“C’mere—”

Sam hefts Steve into his arms—far too easy a chore—and turns to lay him back against the pillows. Steve bites when Sam kisses him again. Sam just laughs and brushes his swollen lips to Steve’s cheek and pulls the blonde’s shirt up and off. Steve shimmies out of his boxers and smirks, stretching his lithe body over Sam’s bed. Sam tears off his own shirt and pants and ducks down to lave at Steve’s throat.

“So fuckin pretty,” he murmurs, though he knows Steve won’t be able to make out the words. “Love you, Stevie, you’re so good for me.”

Sam sucks a bruise into Steve’s sternum, good clean sweat salty on his tongue. He runs his hands down Steve’s sides to his thighs and cups the backs of his knees, rubs circles on the sides of his kneecaps with his thumbs. Steve wriggles under his mouth, panting and arching his back. Sam takes his mouth again and moans at the wet, heady taste of him. Steve groans back and pulls away.

“Sammy,” he gasps. “Do somethin please, you gotta, baby.”

Sam grins. He leans back for a moment, considering, until Steve squirms and glares. Sam rolls his eyes. He grabs the lube and a condom from his bedside table and makes a show of unscrewing the little cap—completely unnecessary, it’s a snap top—and pouring too much onto his fingers. He rolls the condom on slow, massaging the full length of his swollen cock. Steve huffs and Sam chuckles and kisses his knee.

“Wan me to open you up, Stevie?” he says. He presses the tips of two fingers lightly over Steve’s hole, taps just to watch his boyfriend’s mouth part. “‘m gonna fuck you good, baby.”

Steve nods and rocks his hips. “Now,” he demands.

Sam rolls his eyes and presses at Steve’s hole. The blond was never one for foreplay, not when he wanted Sam’s dick in him, but if Sam played it just right—he slips his first finger in up to the knuckle and Steve sighs. He’s so warm, a fire brand around Sam’s fingers, and too tight. Sam always thinks Steve needs more prep, and Steve always pushes for the burn of it, for Sam to split him open on his cock. Sam takes what time he can, now, adds another finger and relishes in the feel of Steve opening around him, the way he clenches up and relaxes so sweetly each time Sam brushes over his prostate. He wraps his free hand carefully around Steve’s cock, just holding it, fingers loose around the wetting length.

“Sammy, get in me,” Steve whines. “I’m good, I’m good, I promise.”

“Alright,” Sam soothes, “alright, sweetheart.” He nips the inside of Steve’s knee and the blond grins.

“Gonna be so thick, Sammy,” Steve croons, working his hips down. Sam’s cock throbs and his own ass clenches so he crooks his fingers and presses harder. Steve gasps and squirms.

Sam smirks. “Alright,” he says again.

He steadies himself with one hand on Steve’s belly and lines himself up. He nudges his cockhead at Steve’s hole and stills his hips there. He strokes himself slowly and hisses at the kiss-slow swallow of heat. His head pops past the strong ring of muscle at Steve’s entrance and it pulls a groan from deep in Sam’s chest. The lube they use is thick and the slide is slow and wet and so, so hot around his cock. Steve makes a strangled sound and pushes his hips down. His blue-and-green eyes flutter closed.

“That’s it,” he sighs. “Fuck me, baby.”

Sam nudges forward, little by little, teeth digging into his lip to offset the drag on his sensitive cock, even through the condom. Steve doesn’t help, withering on his cock. He reaches up and gets his hands on Sam’s nipples, pinching and twisting with spit-slick fingers, sending jolts down Sam’s spine.

“Uhn—fuck—”

Sam’s hips snap and Steve jerks and whines. He claws at Sam’s arms and Sam has to brace himself for a moment, cock throbbing. He kisses Steve and opens his mouth for the blond to tongue, eager and sloppy. Sam rocks his hips hard, whines when Steve deliberately bears down each time he pulls back. He grips Steve’s cock again in a loose fist. It’s flushed now, and precum pearls at the tip. Steve doesn’t always come, but he might, tonight. Steve kisses him and bites at his lips again as he pulls away to press his mouth under Steve’s good ear. The steady slap of their skin is delicious.

“You feel so good, Stevie,” he breathes. “Ass always so tight. Fuck, I love fuckin you, honey— can I have your cock after, hmm? Have you in my mouth?”

“Sam!” Steve whines. He squirms and Sam fucks him harder, grinds in deep so he’s hardly thrusting so much as digging his cock deep inside that smooth, slick heat.

“Let me, baby, c’mon,” Sam insists. “You’re so good, cock feels so fuckin good in my mouth when you’re all spent, c’mon, wanna make you come tonight, Steve, God—”

Steve sobs and digs his teeth into Sam’s shoulder and that’s all it takes, Sam is gone. He comes with a harsh cry and jams his helpless hips against Steve’s. His body shudders, and he’s bright, glowing. Steve clutches his shoulders and Sam lets himself crumble down, press Steve’s little frame into the mattress.

“Gonna let me be sweet to you?” Sam whispers. Steve shakes his head and Sam asks him again, “You gonna let me take care of you, sweet thing?”

Steve groans. His cock slides wetly over Sam’s skin as Sam lowers himself to lie between Steve’s legs. He traces nonsensical patterns on Steve’s thigh with his right hand, grips the base of his short, swollen cock with his left.

“Let me, honey,” Sam urges.

“In-inhaler first,” Steve says. He takes a few breathes of his medicine while Sam gets comfortable.

He knows Steve doesn’t always like it. He gets too sensitive when he can’t come, and even though Sam shows him how much he likes Steve’s cock—as though he wouldn’t love any part of Steve’s body—the blond still doesn’t like Sam to give it much attention when, likes it better when he can fuck Sam until he’s too tired to make a fuss over things instead.

Sam grins now and gives Steve three long, steady strokes, pausing at the top to swirl his palm over the thick, exposed head. “Can you come tonight?” Sam asks. “Will you let me have it?”

Steve’s mouth is parted and he pants, stills his hips like he thinks Sam will just give up.

“I could fuck you,” Steve whispers. Sam rolls his eyes.

“I already got mine,” he says. “C’mon, want this sweet cock in my mouth, baby, lemme have it…”

Sam watches Steve from under his lashes and licks his lips oh-so-slowly, watches Steve flush redder. He strokes Steve’s cock again and lets his breath wash over the tip.

“Ugh!” Steve bucks and his cock smears against Sam’s lips. “Fuck! Sam—”

Sam swallows him down, teeth just barely scraping the sensitive shaft, and seals his lips around the base. Steve cries out, sharp and rough. He fits perfectly on Sam’s tongue, hot and fat and ever-so-slightly bitter. Sam works his throat and Steve moans, back arching as he tries to shove impossibly deeper. Sam gropes for Steve’s hands and brings them around to grip the back of his skull, relishing the little bite of his boyfriend’s fingernails in his scalp. For a moment he just holds Steve’s cock in his mouth, relishes the smell and taste of his skin until the smaller man’s pulse calms.

“Sammy!” Steve whines. His fingers flex and he rocks his his hips under Sam’s hands. “C’mon! You fuckin said you wanted to do this—”

Sam hums and drags his lips back to the tip, tongues the head and cups Steve’s swollen balls. Steve cries out again and shoves Sam’s face down so Sam’s close to choking before his grip loosens again. Sam’s spent cock twitches.

He pulls off, and says, “you taste good.”

Steve shakes his head and manages a laugh. “Tastes like cock.”

Sam pulls back offended. “You sayin I don’t taste good?” Steve rolls his eyes.

“You taste like sunshine and lollipops, b-babe,” he drawls, breath hitching when Sam gives his cock another kiss.

“You taste like Steve,” Sam says. He licks his lips and laves at the side of Steve’s shaft, closes his teeth gently over a vein. Steve’s eyes blow wide. His whole body clenches. Sam chuckles around his mouthful and pulls off again.

“Breathe, baby,” he soothes. Steve takes a few deep, shaky breaths and Sam puts a hand over his thin chest, feels his erratic heartbeat.

“You good?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” Steve spits, eyes flashing. “You don’t have to check all the time.” Sam rolls his eyes.

“I like checking on you,” he says. “I like goin slow. Means I get to savor it.”

Steve glares even as he bucks into Sam’s hand. “You just say that cause it’s me.”

“Listen to yourself!” Sam snaps. “Of course I like it cause it’s you. I love you. Your body, the way we have sex, it’s part of being with you. Of course I fuckin like it.”

Steve opens his mouth to argue again and Sam drives his point home, swallows his cock again and sucks hard. Steve wails. His cock twitches—he’s close. Sam holds his hips down with one hand and fumbles for the lube, unwilling to let Steve out of his mouth. He makes his boyfriend hold his eyes while he slicks up his fingers again, gets to watch Steve’s pupils tremble at the first touch to his swollen hole. Sam slips two fingers in with ease and presses hard at Steve’s prostate, swallows repeatedly at the same time. Steve’s hips jerk but Sam’s mean, keeps him in place and sucks harder. Steve thrashes his head and yells.

“‘S too—I c-can’t, Sammy!” He bucks under Sam’s hands again and comes down his throat, back bowed. “Ow!” he wails. “Sa-Sammy! Hurts, ow fuck, don’ st-stah—don’t stop—”

Sam swallows what Steve gives him and pulls his fingers back just a little, bringing his thumb up to massage that spot behind Steve’s balls. He stops sucking but keeps Steve’s cock in his mouth. Steve spurts twice again before he finally pushes at Sam’s head, whining from deep in his chest. Sam pulls his fingers out and wipes them on the bed, holds Steve’s cock in his mouth for another few seconds. He lets go when Steve pushes at his head again and rests his cheek on the blonde’s thigh, panting for breath.

“Jesus,” Steve hisses. “Fuckin love that. Love you.”

“Love you too, baby,” Sam murmurs. “C’n I hold you? Sorry: can I hold you?”

“Huh?”

“Sorry.” Sam chuckles. “Sorry—can I hold you, baby?”

“Yeah,” Steve mumbles. He lets Sam wrap him up but squirms around until they face each other and tucks Sam’s head under his chin. Sam just rolls his eyes and tightens his grip. He listens to Steve’s heart slow and his breath go even. He floats for a while, eyes half-closed. Steve whispers something.

“Hmm?”

“I said, ‘thank you’,” Steve murmurs. “I know it’s—not easy. With me.”

Sam sighs. “Steve—”

“I don’t—mean that,” Steve snaps. “I don’t mean—my body. Disabilities. Whatever. I mean, all this other shit. Thank you.”

Sam wriggles up so they’re pressed face-to-face. “You are not a chore,” he says. “I mean, you an asshole, right? But you not a chore, Steve.” He brushes the hair from Steve’s face, runs his thumb over the bridge of his nose across his high, thin cheekbones.

“You ain’t any diff’rent now than yesterday,” Sam says.

“No,” Steve mutters, staring somewhere down past Sam’s throat. “Now we just know why I’m like this.”

“Why you’re a stubborn, self-sacrificing shithead? Yeah we do,” Sam snaps. “Your mother survived a forced pregnancy in a Hydra facility, escaped—we still don’t know how she did that, man—and then she named you after your clone-father, and still managed to hide you in an adoption agency.” Sam snorts. “She did that. A civilian.”

Steve’s glare slips and his mouth parts like he really hadn’t thought of it. Sam rolls his eyes.

“That’s both parents, in their twenties, totally ill-equipped, fighting Hydra because they thought it was the right thing to do,” Sam barrels on. “You were fuckin hopeless from day one, honey.”

Steve snorts and laughs, face finally crinkling into a smile. “What didja get yourself into, Wilson?”

“Some stupid shit.”

Steve chuckles and shifts so he can wrap one big hand around the back of Sam’s neck. “How’d I get so lucky? Huh?” He presses a kiss to Sam’s nose and grins when Sam makes a face.

“I have a thing for blonds with boney butts,” Sam deadpans.

Steve snorts and hits him. He wraps his arms tighter around Sam, shoves his knees close and closes his eyes, no doubt wills himself to sleep. Sometime later Sam thinks he says, “I love you,” but he isn’t sure Steve hears.


	16. Bad Moon Rising

They go back to the Tower in the morning. Tony’s on the phone with Pepper, eyes red rimmed with dark circles blossoming underneath. Rhodey shoves some coffee into the engineer’s hands and waves Sam and Steve over with a yawn.

“Y’all sleep?” he grunts. Sam raises his eyebrows and nods and Rhodey full-on pouts. “What a luxury,” he grumbles. “Hey, Banner! You got somethin for them or what?”

“Uh, oh, yeah, sorry.” Bruce rubs his eyes and flashes one of his patented Banner soft-smiles. “I studied your results more, after you left,” he says. “I found something interesting.”

He pulls something up on his tablet and passes it to Steve. “Did this ever come up in your blood work before?”

“Oh yeah.” Steve squints at the screen. “Always marked it down as a protein deficiency.” Steve shrugs.

“Well, your doctors were lazy,” Bruce says bluntly. “It’s definitely not a deficiency. From the looks of it—it’s serum.”

Steve freezes. “The serum that Steven Grant Rogers had,” he clarifies. Bruce nods. Holy fucking shit. “Seems unlikely,” Steve continues, “given that I inherited most of his pre-serum ailments.”

“It has a similar chemical makeup to what’s been tried in recreation attempts. Except, you know. It’s better,” Bruce explains. “It simply appears—dormant. Unactivated, if you will.” Bruce takes off his glasses and hums. “Howard Stark used vita rays to catalyst the reaction in Rogers’ body. If we could recreate that, the serum’s effects might be recreated, too—”

“No,” Steve snaps. Bruce jumps and looks up at him. “Whatever Rogers did, that was his choice. I don’t need to be—fixed. I’m fine.” Sam’s gut clenches and he presses closer to his boyfriend.

Bruce holds up his hands. “Hey, I agree,” he says. “Trust me, you don’t have to explain why you don’t want to mess around with gamma radiation.”

Steve winces and his shoulders drop. “Sorry,” he mutters. Bruce shakes his head.

“I just want you to have all the information,” he says. “And truth be told, there’s no guarantee we could ever recreate Stark’s experiment, and even if we could, there’s no guarantee the serum would react the same way with your body as it did with Rogers’. You’re a different person. Your body works differently.”

Steve nods. Sam presses a kiss to his jaw and moves his hand to the small of Steve’s back.

“What’s in your head?” Sam asks quietly.

Steve doesn’t reply and Sam opens his mouth to repeat himself but Steve nudges his shoulder. Sam stays quiet.

“Well, thanks for the info, Doc,” Steve says. “I’ll—it is good to know. I guess.”

He shrugs Sam’s hand off his shoulder and skulks away, chin jutted out. Sam crosses his arms. He breathes through his nose, watches his boyfriend’s rounded shoulders struggle to straighten. 

“Anything else we should know, Bruce?”

“Not right now.” The doctor rubs his eyes behind his glasses. “I’ll keep you up to date.” Bruce smiles. 

Sam nods and walks away, purposefully skirting his boyfriend. He needs space. Sam sits at a vacant table and breathes through his nose again, crosses his arms and lets his eyes close. His phone rings.

“Jesus, Ni—”

“Nana,” Nick Fury snaps.

“Nana,” Sam repeats without thinking. “...How are you?”

“I need you in DC. Now. Don’t trust anyone.”

“What about you?” Sam asks carefully.

“No one,” Fury insists. “And suit up. We still don’t know yet who were really up against.”

“Yeah, I can fix that,” Sam says. “But I’ll need to bring some friends to help.”

“No.”

Sam waits a second, then insists, “Nana, it’ll just be some friends. I’ll need someone to help me out.”

“Wilson—”

“Nana.”

“Goddamn it!” Fury snaps. “Fine. Nobody SHIELD. I mean it, Wilson, Becker’s out.”

Sam bristles. “I don’t know, Nana. That doesn’t sound like a good idea for you.” Tony gives him a look and he softens his voice. “You know I’d love to visit, but—”

“No buts,” Fury spits. “You really want to risk getting their hands on Steve?” Sam bites back a sneer.

“I know you’re worried, Nana, but I think I’ll be okay,” he says.

Fury huffs. “Think about it this way: that sniper you worked with? He used to be a person. Before he was...forcibly recruited.”

Sam’s throat closes is up and for a moment he only mouths something unintelligible. Brock Rumlow’s sneering face, he’s a little tired, and the Winter Soldier’s blank stare, well up unwelcome in his mind’s eye. Steve is still grinding his teeth in the corner, arms folded over his middle, leaning back just so to take the pressure off the balls of his feet—he’s got fallen arches.

“I guess I’ll be there,” Sam croaks.

Steve doesn’t even bat an eye when Sam tells him he has to go. It almost stings, how easy it is to get away from him. Steve reads people in seconds flat, and sees nothing when he glances at Sam.

“Sure,” is all he says. “See you later, Sam.”

Sam grabs Tony and drags him into the hall. “Fury needs in DC. Now,” he says, when Stark inevitably opens his mouth. “Get Rhodey if he can come. I need to grab my gear.”

Sam makes himself walk back to his apartment, trying to find some relief in oxygen rushing into his lungs, blood moving muscles. He still feels knotted and sick as he suits up. Iron Man and War machine meet him in the air.

“You good to make it to DC?” Rhodey asks. “I’ve never seen anyone use those wings for long flights.”

“That’s cause you have to be good,” Sam retorts. Rhodey chuckles at him and Stark huffs.

“So what’s the plan, Cap?” he calls. “We just gonna hang around the ole pirate, world’s most obvious body guards?”

“Fury didn’t say, but I’m ninety-percent sure he’s compromised,” Sam replies. “I think we’ll know when we get there.”

“What’s the ten percent?”

“Thinkin he’s already dead.”

DC is in chaos. Police and what looks to be a SHIELD strike team surround Nick Fury’s crashed vehicle. The man himself is blasting one of the biggest machine guns Sam’s ever scene, and he represses a pang of guilt that Steve isn’t here to see his mentor in action. Sam dives and drop kicks a police car into the fray, scattering a group of officers. He takes another two out easily and blocks a volley of fire with his wings.

“Nice of you to finally show up,” Fury shouts. Sam tosses his shield and three black-uniformed guards go down.

“Not sure you even need the help, sir,” Sam calls back.

Fury spares a moment to give Sam the middle finger. Rhodey and Tony have been kind enough to clear them a path, bodies scattered on the sidewalk. Sam puts a hand on Fury’s shoulder.

“Need a lift?”

Nick loops an arm around his shoulders and Sam holsters the shield to lift him up. It’s familiar in a way that leaves Sam disconcerted, standard assess-and-treat questions ready and useless on the tip of his tongue.

They make it about half a block before the Winter Soldier blasts them out of the sky. Only the shield strapped between Sam’s wings keeps his pack intact. He curls his wings as best he can around Fury as they crash. They roll and Sam gets to his feet just in time to dive out of the way of another blast from the Soldier’s shoulder launcher. It doesn’t look as though the guy’s patched up at all since he fought on them on the roof. His shot leg is crusted reddish brown with and his lip is swollen and dark where Sam cut him.

“Iron Man! War Machine!” Sam bellows. “Could use some fuckin cover!”

There’s no answer for a moment, and then JARVIS says, “I’m afraid Sir and Colonel Rhodes are out of action for the moment, Captain. Something is interfering with the operation of the suits.”

“EMP,” Sam mutters.

“Yes, sir, an incredibly advanced derivation.”

Sam tosses shield and crashes a lamp post into the Soldier’s path. The man doesn’t even bother to step around it, just crushes the metal beneath heel. He raises the rocket launcher again and Sam throws himself forward, knocks the weapon hard with his shield and gives the Soldier a kick to dodge. The Soldier throws the smoking launcher at Sam’s face and hits him hard, twice, brutal and efficient, kidney and ribs. Sam swings at him, winded, and misses. The Soldier jabs at him again but Sam strikes with the shield and finally gets him square in the chin. The mask knocks away. Heedless of his bloody chin the Soldier sneers and produces a knife, blade spinning in his hand.

“I know you,” he hisses. “Why?”

“We met twice, man,” Sam snaps.

The Soldier attempts to punch his metal fist through the shield and Sam pushes him back with his own momentum, tossing him into the unforgiving concrete. The man rolls to his feet and comes again. He moves too fast to track so Sam keeps just out of his full reach and puts all his energy into deflecting each blow, jarring the Soldier with each swing of his shield. Sure enough, the Soldier begins to snarl. He leaps at Sam, sloppy, and Sam slams him to the concrete.

“Come on man, think!” he bellows. Sam dodges a kick to his shins and when he knocks the Soldier down again the shield cracks his jaw. “Who were you, huh? Why did you know Steve?”

The Soldier’s mouth parts at Steve’s name. Sam raises his shield again—if he can knock him out, they can take him in—and a bullet rips through his shoulder. Sam pulls his wings up too late to block the second but it pings off metal anyway, and Sam turns to find Rhodey behind him with his arms spread, suit glowing once again.

“Sorry, Cap!” Rhodey calls. “Had a malfunction. You alright?”

“No, man, I’m shot—shit.” The Soldier is gone. “Where’s Fury?”

“Gone,” Rhodey says. 

More police officers rush the scene, weapons drawn. “That’s our cue, gentleman. Shall we?”

***

They ended up in a Maryland safehouse. Steve shows up just after they pull the slug out of his shoulders. Sam tries stupidly to wave and and groans, stretches and immediately regrets the movement. Steve scoffs and jerks his chin.

“Outside,” he snaps.

It’s cloudy, and damp. Steve hugs his thin arms around his chest even though he’s wrapped in a jacket and flannel peeks out over his jeans, beanie pulled low over his ears. His eyes are red and his mouth is pursed.

“How hurt are you?”

“Took a few hits. One bullet,” Sam says, crossing his arms. “Isn’t too bad. Guy must not’a been a good shot.” Steve just glares at him.

“Saw the Soldier again,” Sam continues. “He recognized me. I almost brought him in, but—” he shakes his head. “Cops showed up again.”

“Oh, yeah? The cops showed up, when you tried to take on SHIELD and Hydra by your fuckin self in middle o’ the fuckin street? What a shock!” Steve sneers when Sam opens his mouth again.

“Who called you before you left?” he asks. “You gimme that look Sam, but you should know by now that I pay attention.”

“You didn’ even ask where I was goin, Steve!” Sam snaps.

“I thought you need to blow off steam!” Steve yells back, throwing his hands up. “Guess I was fuckin right, huh? You and the Tin-Can Duo have fun before you got shot?”

“You—” Sam breathes through his nose and closes his eyes for a moment before he faces Steve’s glare again.

“Fury called,” he says. “Told me to come to DC. Without you.”

“Not—okay.” Steve mirrors his posture, slows his own breathing. “Why?”

Sam squares his shoulders. “Hydra. I—”

“Hydra? You didn’ bring me cause’a Hydra? Well, golly-gee, Sam!” Steve’s already hoarse. “Thanks for lookin out for little ol’ me!”

“You know it wasn’ like that,” Sam snaps. “Hydra went through a whole lotta trouble to—to ensure you were born, Steve—.”

“To make me, c’mon, you can’t say it?” Steve sneers. “You’re a fuckin piece’a work, Wilson. Fuck you.”

“Think about it, Steve!” Sam knows he’s yelling. “How the hell am I just gonna—drag you right in from of em when I know what they’re gonna do, now?”

“How the fuck would you know that, Sam? Huh?”

The Winter Soldier used to be a person. “C’mon, Steve.” Sam laughs wryly. “It’s Hydra. You honestly tellin me you wouldna tried try to keep me out of it?”

Steve’s mouth twists. “What you did,” he says, “was reckless. And stupid. So fuck you for pullin that on me. And then you wanna talk about—you’d be pissed if I left you behind,” he adds. “So fuck. You.”

“Maybe I just didn’t wanna lose someone, else, okay?” Sam spits. “Not when I had a fuckin choice!”

“It wasn’t yours to make!” Steve yells and he’s right, but Sam still lets him walk away.


	17. Captain America

Nat wakes him up sometime later. Her number is blocked, and she doesn’t bother with ‘hello.’

“Put me on speaker,” she snaps. “Who’re you with?”

“Rhodes and Stark. Jesus, Nat, who are you with?” 

“Carter,” she says briskly. “Sam, now.”

Sam sighs, presses the speaker button. “Okay, NR, go.”

“You’ve all read the files on Project Insight?” 

Sam hasn’t, but Tony curses. “Yes.”

“Pierce’s plan to discredit Nick Fury worked. The World Security Council has approved launch,” says Nat. “But the targeting system’s been—modified. They’re using an algorithm developed by Arnim Zola.”

“I thought he was dead,” Sam protests. “How did you—”

“Long story.” It’s Clint, ever-so-slightly muffled. “Almost got blown up—and then, you know, actually got blown up—but, uh—SHIELD’s lookin for us. All of us.” 

“It’s sophisticated,” NR continues. “It allows the helicarriers to target anyone, civilian or otherwise, who could in any way be considered a threat to Hydra. It’s—”

“Billions of innocent people,” Tony snaps. “I thought I wasn’t doing this anymore, Rhodey?”

“How do we stop it?” Sam demands.

“I’ve got an idea.” Tony taps away at his phone. “If we can disrupt their algorithm, we won’t even have to worry about bringing those things down—they’ll take care of themselves.”

“We’ll have to do it before the ships are airborne,” Natasha warns. “Once they’re up, it’s only seconds before their programming goes into effect.”

“Gotcha. Hi! Agent Hill!” Tony manages to contort his face into what Sam can only describe as a pained smirk. “Listen, there’s something we need you to do.”

They suit up again while Stark and Hill conspire in the corner. Nat will intercept one of the council members en route to the Triskelion and do what she can to release SHIELD files to the public while they dismantle Insight. Rhodey and Tony will take two of the helicarriers, Sam the third. They just have to replace the Hydra targeting blades with the ones Tony and Hill cook up, and the helicarriers will destroy each other instead of a good two thirds of the population.

Rhodey comes and sits by Sam while he’s re-bandaging his shoulder. He gestures at the gauze and Sam hands it to him wordlessly. Sam has seen his share of action since joining the Avengers, but for some reason he’s more jittery than usual, like he’s got live wires for veins. 

“You ever miss your unit?” he asks. “When you got War Machine business?”

Rhodey sighs and tapes the cotton into place, fingers smoothing over the gauze. “I miss my boys while I’m makin coffee sometimes, man,” he admits. They’re quiet for a moment.

“I tried to contact Becker,” he adds. “Know Tony did, too. He’s not answering his phone, but—”

“It’s okay,” Sam says, too quick. Rhodey shoots him a look. “Really, man, it’s fine.” Sam digs his nails into his palm and rolls his shoulder; it still pulls too-sharp, but he’ll hold. “Don’t want him here, anyway.”

***

Tony thinks it’s a waste of time, but Sam insists on talking to them first. They have to go in to get the targeting blades from Hill, anyway. Sam takes a breath, clears his throat, and cuts on the microphone. The PA system whines in protest, and he clears his throat.

“Heads up, everybody. This is—Captain America.” Hill shots him a glance, nods, smiles. Sam barrels on.

“I assume y’all’ve heard a lot about me in the last few days. So I won’t blame you if you take this with a grain of salt. But please—listen.

“SHIELD is not what they seem. We’ve been servin an evil in their name—Hydra has been operating within SHIELD for years. Most likely—decades.” 

Sam takes a deep breath.

“I didn’ join this organization because I thought it was perfect. I took a job because I thought it was the best way I could help the most people. And now, I’m takin a stand, because SHIELD is not what I thought it was. What we thought it was. I’m askin you to do that with me.

“If you launch these ships today, billions of people are gonna die. And not terrorists, or enemies. Insight will kill any threat to Hydra—parents, teachers, doctors, military personnel. Even those of you who thought they were workin for something good. Like me.”

“Blades ready, Cap,” says Hill. Sam nods to her and turns back to microphone.

“So I’m asking you again, one last time. If you have any doubts about what you’re doin today, stand up. Don’t let those ships get in the air. Don’t put that blood on your hands.”

“Pretty. We have to go now, Wilson,” Stark urges. “C’mon, wheels up.”

Sam turns on the mic one last time and says, “Give em hell. Captain’s orders.”


	18. Soldier Spy

Sam’s belly heaves with and sways with the helicarrier. He clutches the targeting blade in his fist and staggers forward, shield raised.

“Get out my way!” he yells. “Don’t do this, man! You don’t want to, I can see it.”

The Winter Soldier grimaces and charges him again. Sam cracks his shield into the Soldier’s chest and then bounces the disc off the steel beams below to catch the Soldier again in the jaw. The man staggers.

“Want,” he repeats, panting. “I don’t want anything!”

He screams and flies at Sam and this time the shield doesn’t stop him. Sam hits the beams below hard enough to shatter the glass and he has to scramble to recover the fallen targeting blade. The Soldier kicks him away and Sam rolls, tucks the targeting blade into his belt, pulls his wings to deflect two quick bullets and flares them to catch the Soldier off-guard. He hits the Soldier once, twice, three times, but the man just snarls.

Sam isn’t fast enough. The Soldier knocks the shield out of his hands and it’s over, pain explodes all through his chest and for a moment Sam think’s he’ll open his eyes to find the metal fist driven through his ribs. Instead, he just sees Rumlow, smug and smirking with a hand on the sniper’s shoulder.

“Good work, Soldat,” he says, for what must be Sam’s benefit. “Finish him.”

Sam spits blood and drags his shield up. “Fuck you,” he snaps. He lets the Soldier reel back for a punch and throws. The shield clangs off the Soldier’s metal arm and catches Rumlow square in the back, hits the Soldier across the chest on its way back into Sam’s hands. Sam leaps through the broken glass and glides around the craft. He uses his last bullets to shatter another panel and busts in to land on the walkway. The console holding Hydra’s targeting blades is mere feet away.

Rumlow yells and Sam deflects a shot with his wings and pulls a grenade from his belt. Rumlow dives but Stark’s bombs are too good. The glass blows out from beneath his feet and he drops like a stone, screaming, burning. The helicarrier groans. Sam replaces one of the targeting blade’s with Stark’s mod and fumbles for his com.

“Charlie, lock,” he says.

“Just in time, Cap!” Hill reports. “Get out of there!” 

Sam runs down the platform and jumps, folds his wings in front of his body to protect himself from the glass and bursts through into the blessed open air over SHIELD’s runway.

The Soldier lands on his back and they plummet.

They crash with a horrible scream, concrete and metal digging into the fabric of Sam’s suit and the exposed, soft skin of his face. The Soldier slams his head down. Spots burst in his pupils and Sam gasps as the cut above his eye rips open again, spilling red into his vision. The Soldier reaches around, grips his throat and drags him up from the ground, holds him up over his head.

“Hey!”

No

Steve barrels into the Winter Soldier, a freight train, and Sam is flung away. He scrambles up his chest heaving.

“Steve!” he hollers, though is throat burns.

“Thought you might like some help, Cap,” Iron Man says in his ear. “And before you go off, he just showed up. All I did was give’m an airlift.”

Steve pummels the Soldier. He’s fast, Sam knows he’s fast, but there’s something—wrong with the way he moves. The Winter Soldier’s mouth is already bloody.

“Yo, Cap!”

Sam ducks Rumlow’s sloppy swing and hits him swift and hard in the ribs. The guy’s raw and mangled, face morphed from the bomb Sam threw at him. He’s burned, like bodies they’d find in the desert. 

“I’ll say this for you man, you don’t go down easy,” Sam pants.

Rumlow grins, bloody, and lunges. They grapple. Rumlow locks his fists over the back of Sam’s neck, trying to cut off the blood surging to his brain.

“You think this is enough to kill me?” he growls. He hits Sam hard enough to bring him to his knees and kicks his chin, flinging Sam’s aching body across the concrete.

“Hydra taught me to be better,” he rasps, pulling a gun from his smoldering belt.

“Man, shut the hell up,” Sam spits. He buries his knee in Rumlow’s gut and cracks him across the back when he doubles over. Sam kicks him away and he almost crashes into Steve. The blond Steve whirls away from the Winter Soldier to land a punch square over Rumlow’s nose.

“Order through pain, right?” he snaps. He dodges Rumlow’s answering jab but it’s like he flung himself too hard he reels, just enough for Rumlow to get in a quick one to Steve’s chest.

The Winter Soldier screams. He launches himself at Rumlow and throws the man’s body into a grounded jet with a sickening crunch. He picks him up again and shrieks in the man’s limp, blank face. When Rumlow doesn’t respond he smashes him into the plane again and then tosses the body away. Sam swallows his fear and grabs Steve’s hand instead.

“We gotta go, Steve!” he yells.“Now!”

The helicarriers explode above them and Sam hurtles scoops Steve up without waiting for a reply. He jumps. The wind rushes over his face and for a horrible, infinite second Sam cradles Steve’s dislocated arm in his hands, the ground rushing to meet them.

Then he spreads his wings, and they fly.

***

“Well, everything looks normal.” Dr. Cho hangs her stethoscope about her neck and Sam takes a breath for the first time in sixteen hours. Steve pulls his shirt back on and crosses his arms while Dr. Cho peers at his chart. “Within your normal range, I mean.”

They’re in Stark’s private wing of New York-Presbyterian, crowded into Sam’s little guarded room. The Winter Soldier left him with the bullet to the shoulder, three cracked ribs and a busted collarbone. Tony snores from the corner, head lolling on Rhodey’s shoulder. Nat and Fury play cards. Steve crosses his arms and shakes his head. 

Steve nods and offers his hand. “Thanks for everything, Helen,” he says, shaking firmly. She starts to speak again, and Steve smiles. “I think I’d—” his eyes flash to Sam, “—we’d like some time right now.”

Dr. Cho sighs. “Of course.”

Fury’s mouth twists like he’s ready to protest from his hospital bed, but Helen ushers their friends out before the man can get a word in. Steve doesn’t speak even after they’ve left, just closes the door and crawls into bed with Sam, adjusting them gently so Sam’s head is cradled to his chest. His heartbeat is loud and steady beneath Sam’s ear and he breathes so easily, the rise and fall of his chest steady as a drumbeat.

Sam sleeps and wakes from a red-purple dream of Riley’s dismembered body around three in the morning. Steve snores beneath him. Sam slides the blond’s arm up from where it rests over his tender ribs and presses butterfly-kisses to warm skin, breathes in something that isn’t sterilized air. Steve grumbles and shivers.

“Sammy,” he sighs.

“I’m sorry.” Sam puts his lips to Steve’s good ear. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart, you were right, and then I—”

“I woulda done the s’m thing,” Steve mumbles. He yawns and shifts carefully, cradles Sam’s head with his big, warm hands and holds him to his chest. “Don’t do it again.”

“No, sir.”

Steve hums. Sam turns his head and kisses his hand.

“You haven’t told me yet. What it was like,” Sam says. “How did Bruce…?”

Steve sighs. “I’m not really sure,” he says. “He used a lot of Tony’s research. Rigged up this—casket to put me in. Hurt like a bitch,” he adds.

“And now?”

“Now the serum’s—active.” Steve digs his fingers into Sam’s skull, massages gently. Sam’s eyes drift half-closed but still he huffs.

“You holdin out on me?”

Steve lets out a startled little laugh and the pillows rustle as he adjusts them again. He moves Sam so easily now, like he weighs no more than a child.

“Heart’s better,” Steve says after a while. “Ear’s better. My back’s still fucked up. And I still can’t see, which, why? But my lungs’re better. No asthma. And I can out arm-wrestle Nat, so—Sammy?”

Sam chokes on his laugh. “Aw, that’s okay, baby.” He bites back a grin and hears the moment Steve knows what’s gonna happen. “You still—”

“Don’t fuckin say it, Wilson—”

“—take my breath away—”

“Asshole!” 

Steve smacks him, too-hard with his new strength. Sam doesn’t know if Steve’s body will last, what will happen to SHIELD, or what the fuck they’re going to do about the Winter Soldier. But he laughs, and kisses Steve anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank y'all so much for reading! Once again, please remember to check out the lovely [ art ](http://esaael.tumblr.com/post/162435547139/art-for-the-captain-america-reverse-big-bang-2017) that inspired this fic. Kudos and Comments are always appreciated!


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